Skyrim: The Voice of The Bard
by JLawrence Kenny
Summary: "It's true, I cannot lift a sword in my own defense, let alone others." The grin on the bard's face only widened. "Yet one's own voice can be far more deadly if used in the right manner, or far more inspirational. Why lift a single sword with my arm when I can rouse a hundred more with words alone?" A story about the true power of a single Voice.
1. Ulfric I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed. 4E201** **9:30 AM**_

 **Ulfric Stormcloak**

I am Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Student of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Leader of the Revolution of the Sons of Skyrim.

And this is the day of my death.

Today, I leave the mortal plane behind, to join my brothers and sisters in Sovngarde. I can only hope the gods forgive the transgressions I have committed in pursuit of justice. But then the timing of the Imperial ambush that leads us now to our deaths was so perfect... Perhaps the gods have abandoned us. Although I find treachery a far more likely explanation.

Our carriage jumps around as we pass over a pothole, pulling me away from my thoughts. I look around, curiosity getting the better of me. From the multitude of pine trees around me, I know we're somewhere in the Hold of Falkreath. Nature flourishes in the south of Skyrim, but I confess it holds less grandeur for myself compared to some of my brethren. My childhood was filled with grand stone walls, surrounded by frozen tundras and volcanic fields. The Throat of the World towers above us, throwing dark shadows for miles, making the morning seem darker than it should. An ominous sign. No doubt the Greybeards still harbor resentment toward me for abandoning my studies at its peak. But no amount of meditation would cool the fire in my veins, could never satisfy my need to protect my homeland, when the call to battle came so long ago. I often wonder how the world would be had I remained a disciple of the Voice.

Another jolt. Poorly maintained roads. A groan draws my attention in close to my fellow cart mates - and prisoners. Across from me, a man in rags. A thief by the look of him, and a coward. He's done naught but complain the last hour. Next to him sits a man in my own colors. Ralof, if I remember correctly. Yes... A passionate young man, though somewhat unremarkable. I want to speak, reassure him. But the cloth in my mouth prevents me from doing anything but breathe, and even that takes effort. Beside me is another man in rags. Unlike the thief, though, he has an aura of culture about him. Beneath the recent bruising and dirt, his face is angular, his hair groomed; even after being tossed unconscious into the cart with us. In the wrong place at the wrong time, and now the Empire will surely punish him for it. Bastards.

The three have been bickering while I mused. I hadn't noticed until Ralof mentioned my name, startling the others. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion!" I'm not sure to be flattered or insulted that the thief didn't recognize my face. Panic enters the man's voice as he realizes the severity of his situation; I doubt he will make it anywhere near the headsman's block. "But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ralof's words echo my thoughts. "I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."

I lose interest as the soldier begins comforting the distraught thief. The other prisoner - a Breton by the name of Talao, I learn as Ralof asks - is handling the situation far better than I would have assumed, though he keeps glancing at me questioningly. I ignore him in favor of watching the road ahead. All too soon, I see our destination. Helgen. Of course; there's an Imperial bastion here. I can here the sounds of a bustling town slowly dying as our procession enters. Imperial archers line the walls, obviously dying to loose their arrows into any foolish enough to take off.

"Look at him," I hear Ralof spit, "General Tullius, the military governor." The military fop; he interests me not. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves." Though his words are heated, they turn the blood in my veins to ice. I turn, and sure enough, next to Tullius sits an Altmer in pitch black clothes. Elenwen, of all people.

Shor save us. What is that Thalmor bitch doing here?... Her presence can't possibly be coincidence. Have the Thalmor finally decided to clean up loose ends? Is she here to ensure my death, or are her machinations more devious? Through it all, I refuse to back down from her damned condescending sneer. I return her smug stare with venom. _You don't own me, elf. You never have._

Finally, the carts come to a stop. The horse thief is hyperventilating now, and rambling in terror. I honestly want to punt the coward out of the cart, but it's beneath my dignity. My men look to me for composure. I must be above such pettiness. I notice the other prisoner tumble out of the cart with a cry of pain after me. I notice, as Ralof helps him up, that his leg seems oddly twisted, as if deformed. An old wound, then. Still, there is no time to reflect as the Imperials have already begun to open their lists. The names of every known dissident of the Empire are written on those lists. Surprisingly, I find the Imperial standing in front of me, condemning my soldiers, is a fellow Nord. Another traitor to his people. It disgusts me that one could renounce their ideals so freely, for mere politics.

"Ulfric Stormcloak!"

First to go, then. I shrug off the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, as he leads me away from my compatriots. Ralof calls to me, but I can barely hear him over the blood rushing through my ears as I survey the scene. The headsman stands before us, his axe well-sharpened and gleaming, the chopping block lying at the ready. I should have known better; as if the Empire would bother with a trial. Seems they've given up even the pretense of justice now. All the better. If nothing else, more and more people will soon realize the justness of our cause and fly to our banner as the Empire slowly destroys everything it stands for. Even if the leader of that banner is not myself.

A scuffle reaches my ears behind me, and glance to see the horse thief burst through the line of Imperials. His flight is short-lived, though, and he nearly instantly drops to the ground in a flurry of limbs, numerous arrows buried in his back. I knew he'd never make it to the block. A coward to the end. To Oblivion with him; I've my own date to keep.

By the time all the names had been read, a sizable crowd had formed around the yard, clearly anticipating a spectacle. Nary a friendly face to be found. Tullius walks into the yard, and faces me directly. The esteemed general had obviously been dying to make a speech. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

A pitiful start. And false on several counts. A retort passes my tongue, but no further, as the gag restrains me. The coward refuses me any last words as he rambles on, addressing the crowd as much as myself, clearly wanting to make some kind of example of the situation. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!" The crowd murmurs in assent, my Stormcloaks in disgust. Personally, I find the man's little speech dull beyond compare. He has no sense of eloquence, his words sounding rehearsed and flat. Even at half his age - perhaps even a third, given his graying hair - I could captivate a crowd with a few sentences, drive them into the heights of passion. I understand the souls of my fellow men, and how to inspire them.

Suddenly, a shriek pierces the mid-morning air. Everyone stirs uneasily, and I admit somewhere in the back of my mind, a twinge of primal fear appears. But it is gone as quickly as it came, and I dismiss the noise; the howl of the wind carving through the mountain pass, perhaps. The crowd swiftly settled as well; a Priestess of Arkay stepped forward to deliver our last rites. More Imperial custom than Nord, but decent of them. Or at least, it would be if their priests did not bow the whims of the Elves.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon..."

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The Priestess sounds surprised and affronted as Baldor - whose heart burns with a passion so great, I sometimes think it burned out his mind - interrupts her and steps fearlessly toward the headsman. I don't know why she reacted as such; one should expect vitriol when you slight a man's god, even a "heretic's." My heart fills with pride as Baldor taunts the Imperials even as they force him down upon the block. Such bravery. Bravery all my Stormcloaks possess. To die for their beliefs, fighting an unjust Empire, whether by sword or axe.

I don't look away or flinch as the axe finishes its deadly arc. I have seen far worse in my life than a body and head separated from each other. The crowd cries out as the body is unceremoniously shoved aside.

"Justice!"

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

I lock eyes with Tullius as the captain calls out, "Next, the Breton!" Of course. He wants me to go last. To watch as my men lay down their lives, knowing that I will share their fate. I would feel guilt for their deaths, but for the fact that they are not here following my banner; they are here because they followed their ideals.

Another shriek cuts through the air. Much louder than before. And much, much closer. My blood chills. There is no mistaking it for the wind this time. That howl was undeniably the call of an apex predator. Some creature atop the pecking order, and knows it. But what? I've never heard anything like it in my life, though I feel an ancient part of me quail in fear before it. The crowd is visibly agitated now, but the Imperials push on. The Breton is walked to the block. Amazingly, he seems almost uninterested in his impending death, gazing around, as if curious about the sound. In my mind, I honor him. I remember Ralof's earlier words: A Nord's last thoughts should be of home. And so my own thoughts turn to Windhelm. The majesty of the Palace of Kings, where I spent my childhood, and it's storied history. The strength of its walls and its peoples, with whom I strove to make our world a better place.

As the Breton is brought painfully to his knees... I am not a man given to excessive prayer. I have always preferred to proclaim my faith through the truth of actions than through words that have no substance behind them. And yet for this man, whether fearless or foolhardy, I find myself speaking within me. _Mighty Talos. I have sought in my life to honour you through battle and glory. I have fought to save your divine name from enemies who would have your struck from the annals of history, and defile all that for which you stand. Should this be my time to die, I embrace it willingly, knowing I have striven my best to achieve my goals, and knowing others will take up your banner in my absence. But I implore you; spare this innocent life before me, whose only guilt lies in poor fortune. He does not deserve to die a meaningless death by the treachery of this false Empire._

So engrossed am I, it is not until someone forces me to the ground that I notice anything wrong. The ground shakes beneath me, and all of Helgen is in an uproar. I look up and freeze from disbelief. Shock and awe bind my feet. Has Talos answered my prayer? Is this a blessing I have brought upon us, or a curse? Someone unties my hands, and I rip the gag from my mouth. I run from the great black beast without a second thought. I never understood the phrase "Discretion is the better part of valor" until this very moment.

"DRAGON!"


	2. Ralof I

**A/N:** Greetings friends, and welcome to Skyrim: The Tale of The Bard. This particular story has been eating away at my brain for about a year now. I'll not spoil the point of this story, but I will mention that it follows the canon MQ rather strictly. The events will remain the same for the most part, but reactions will differ from what's expected. Hopefully, my style and format will keep the story fresh despite you hearing the story you've read and played a hundred times already. A/Ns will be at an absolute minimum, and thanks again for reading. Also, keep an eye out later in the story for a companion fic; the plot itself will remind you.

 _ **Sundas, 17** **th** **of Last Seed 4E201 10AM**_

 **Ralof**

My name is Ralof. I was born and raised in a small town called Riverwood. When Ulfric revolted against a traitorous Empire, I flew to his side and became a Son of Skyrim.

And today, we have escaped the Empire's jaws of death.

Though perhaps the far deadlier pair of jaws flying above us may still bring about our end. When the beast appeared, there was no mistaking it. The form of Akatosh, not seen in Skyrim since the Second Era. A dragon. And then it opened its mouth, and it was as if Oblivion has come to Mundus. A shockwave, followed by flaming rocks falling from the sky. Someone cuts me loose from my binds.

Now I find myself grabbing the Breton prisoner, shouting, "Come on, Breton, get up! The gods won't give us another chance!" I feel more strongly about saving this man than I should, perhaps. But then, I can't shake the feeling that the timing was too perfect to be aught but divine intervention; the dragon interrupted a split-second before the man's head would have been split from his body.

I practically drag the stumbling man to the nearby watchtower, where my fellow Stormcloaks have taken refuge, slamming the heavy door shut behind us. Not that I'm convinced it would stop a dragon, of course. Jarl Ulfric is here as well, besieged by questions from all sides.

"Was that really a dragon?"

"Could the legends be true?"

Somehow, the Jarl remains unfazed, as though we had not all nearly been eaten alive, answering with a quick statement; "Legends don't burn down villages." We are surrounded by the commotion of screams and roars that reach even through the mortar of the building.

The Breton - Talao, I recall - catches my attention. "Pardon," he says, rubbing his now free wrists, "but perhaps we could discuss what it is or isn't once we're no longer in danger of becoming its lunch."

Another roar punctuates the silent agreement of the room, and Jarl Ulfric shouts over the noise, "We need to get moving, now!" I grab the prisoner once more, pulling him up the stairs. We need to get a better view of our surroundings to figure out how best to escape. Thankfully, his leg doesn't seem to slow him down overmuch. The curiosity I noticed in him earlier is gone, replaced by determination and no small amount of fear. Can't blame him for that. It happens to new recruits as well, their first battle. Or they dissolve into a blubbering pile of tears. One or the other. We reach the next level, only the find the stairway impassable, barred by rocks. Another soldier pushes past us, trying to clear the path, but as I move forward to help him, an entire section of the outer wall bursts in, sending me sprawling back against the intact wall behind me. The bloody dragon! It's entire neck is in the tower, and even more monstrous up close; it's head alone larger than my entire body. I can feel my skin heat and blister as it opens its mouth and spews a gout of fire upon the unfortunate soldier ahead of us, incinerating him. The screams are ungodly.

To be honest, I feel like I'm next. The fire stops, and the head turns directly toward us. Will it eat me whole? Roast me alive like the soldier? Damn it all to Oblivion, I don't even have a weapon to defend myself. But by Talos, I'll look my death in the eye, and hope that satisfies the gods. But then I notice, as I stare the best down, it's not even looking at me. I see intelligence in its terrifying crimson eyes. It proclaims, "Look at me. See my power and tremble before it." And that gaze, I swear, is directed straight at Talao. Then the head abruptly withdraws, and we are alone as the dragon continues to terrorize the town.

I'll admit, it takes me a moment to regain my wits. I want to interrogate Talao, find out what he knows, and why a dragon would resurrect itself from extinction just to glare at him. But right now, survival takes priority over curiosity. The stairwell is now hopelessly blocked, so I glance out of the new window in the tower instead. It's an honest to gods nightmare; flames everywhere, buildings completely destroyed, arrows flying through the air. No sign of obvious safe passage. The house directly beside us has lost its roof, but mostly seems stable. Not ideal, but it will keep us moving.

"See that roof over there? Jump through!" Talao clutches his leg, as if to remind me of his injury, but there's no time for sympathy. "Keep moving if you want to live, damn it! We'll follow as soon as we can."

He nods shakily, and I hear him mutter, "Y'ffre guide me." Before he can second-guess himself - or me - he leaps out into the air. I wince as he catches the lip of the room, but miraculously he lands in a bed. I wave him on before rushing back downstairs to retrieve my companions. Only to swear as I notice them missing. No doubt they fled when the dragon lit upon the tower.

"By the Frozen Wastes!" I hate to abandon Talao, but my comrades and my Jarl come first. And if he truly has the favor of the gods, as I'm convinced, surely someone will come to his aid.


	3. Hadvar I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 10am**_

 **Hadvar**

My name is Hadvar. Soldier in the Imperial Legion. A loyal Nord, despite what those in Windhelm might think. Proud citizen of the Empire. Protector of the people.

This knowledge is all that keeps me from melting into a puddle of fear from the might of the beast currently destroying Helgen. While most of my detachment fends off the beast, I do my best to bring townsfolk to what safety I can find. Not that I have much faith in doing so; even as I escort an old man under cover, I watch the dragon - a gods-honest dragon! - bash its head directly through one of the guard towers. Solid stone and mortar that took months to build and reinforce, walls that have stood up to countless bandit raids, knocked aside as though it were a shanty of sticks. Countless arrows find their marks in the dragon's hide, only to bounce off harmlessly. Unbelievable. Any delusions of fighting this beast, this demon, are shattered in my mind. Escape is the only option.

I hear a cry nearby. A man trapped benearth rubble, his son desperately shoving at the unmoving stone. I notice the dragon leap from the ramparts, heading directly for us. Fear assails me again, but I use it to power my limbs, sprinting for the pair. I grab the boy, throwing me over my shoulder, ignoring his screams as the beast lands in front of us, shaking the ground and almost causing me to fall over. The thanks in the man's face is evident, but my mind is elsewhere as he yells at me, "Go, save him!" I dive behind the wall with the old man, my boots scorched with fire as it bathes the ground where I'd been seconds earlier. Even under cover, the heat is oppressive, and the sounds the dragon is making... Would it were louder, that I could drown out the screams of dying men, but no such luck.

Shaking, I hand the now crying boy over to the old man, when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. My hand flies to the hilt of my sword, but when I turn, all I see is a man in rags falling to the ground from the second story of the now burnt-out inn. Where in Kyne's name did he come from? Surely he hadn't been in there since this all began? I look up to the destroyed tower behind the inn, just in time to see another figure disappear from a gaping hole in its side. He jumped? Damn. The man is brave, if nothing else.

I offer him my hand, and realize with a start that he is the Breton that arrived with the prisoners. Saved from the chopping block from the dragon, if you could call it saving. Happy coincidence, that; I'd have hated to see another innocent die because of that thrice-damned traitor, Ulfric.

"Still alive, prisoner?" I ask, more out of amazement than curiosity.

"It's Talao," he responds pointedly. Quite a lot of spunk for a man who's nearly died several times today. "I am, and if you don't mind, I'd like to remain so." He glares at my sword, which I note is bared directly at him.

I lower it hastily, but do not sheathe it. Danger, and all that. "Good. Stick with me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy."

The old man looks at me with pride and hope as he comforts the boy. "Gods guide you, Hadvar." This. This is why I am a Legionnaire. Not for praise, or adoration, or battle. I wanted to be a shield for my people. And if I save even one person from the fires of Oblivion today, I will be content.

Enough dallying. "We need to find General Tullius and join the defense." The General will know what to do. The man's a military genius.

We run, heading toward the sound of the General's voice. A roar sounds close overhead. "Stay close to the wall!" I yell, as we squeeze through a narrow alley. The ground tosses beneath us with such force that we both go tumbling down, landing on our backs. Not ten feet above us, perched on the wall next to us, sits the dragon, another gout of fire spewing forth. Surely, we'll both die now, I think, covering my face from the vicious fire and blinding light. I swear I can feel blisters popping across my uncovered skin. But again, it lifts off, granting us a reprieve, and somehow another chance to escape.

Why is it here, for gods' sake? If we knew why, we might be able to do something. Is it hungry? Angry? Is destruction its sole desire, or is it far more nefarious? Is it even intelligent?

So many questions, yet all I can do is drag Talao through the glowing wreckage to the General. Atop his horse, he frantically but deliberately issues order to the troops. "Maintain ranks! FALL BACK!" An archer on the wall is grabbed by the dragon, and let loose to plummet to his death, screaming, a mockery of the creature's flight which ends with a sickening crunch. I've seen far worse horrors committed on the battlefield, but the sheer helplessness I feel, the despair is overwhelming. The general is right; full retreat is our only option now.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" The command spurs me to action once more, heading to the garrison with Talao in close pursuit. He may not have been a townsperson, but I believed in the man's innocence and knew that other soldiers likely wouldn't be as eager to protect him if they recognized him from the cart.

We're only a few dozen yards from the door when I see him, clad in blues and greys. By Ysmir, can't I catch a break? "Ralof!" He whirls around at the mention of his name, dropping into a battle stance. "You damned traitor, out of my way!"

"We're esaping, Hadvar. You won't stop us this time, milk drinker!"

My blood boils at his casual arrogance. "Like Oblivion you will. I'll send you to Sovngarde myself! That is, if they admit traitorous heathens like you."

I move toward him, ready to spill his guts on the ground, when something pulls me back. Talao is suddenly between us. "Are you both completely daft?! There's a dragon in the sky above us, raining death and destruction, and you're acting like petty children over a sweetroll. Put aside your damn squabble until we're no longer an instant from being eaten alive!"

I nearly scoff at the notion, but astonishingly, Ralof nods and sheathes his weapon at the prisoner's words. I'm so surprised, I barely register him charge us, yelling "Get down!" He tackles Talao and myself to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Bastard! A trick? I wrestle my sword arm free, intent on skewering him before he does the like to me, when my heart jumps into my throat. A gust of wind slams into us, and black claws grasp at the air we'd just inhabited. We'd been a split-second from the exact fate Talao had warned us of.

Ralof stands, hurriedly helping us all well. "I reckon the man's got the right of things, don't you, Imperial?"

Damn him, but he's right. But I can't truly find it in me to hate him for it. Not just now. "Truce then. Quickly, into the keep." At least there we'll only have to worry about rocks falling on us instead of dragons.""


	4. Hadvar II

_**Sundas, 17** **th** **of Last Seed. 4E201. 2PM**_

Hadvar

Fresh air hits me in the face; a welcome relief after an hour of stale cave air. But no time to relish it yet. I keep low to the ground, dashing to a nearby rock for cover. Waiting. Listening.

There, the beat of heavy wings. A monstrous roar passes above me, but thankfully I seem to have gone unnoticed. I hope. The dragon flies swiftly to the south, passing over a nearby ridge and out of sight.

I wait another moment before I signal the all-clear behind me. Were anyone watching at the time, they'd probably have been surprised to see the ragtag group of both Imperials and Stormcloaks escaping the cave. To be frank, I know I still was. To see a Stormcloak helping out an Imperial with a broken leg. I could say it was solely the fear of the dragon forcing enemies together, rivalries forgotten in the face of survival, but in reality...

I see Talao in the middle of the group, telling a joke, bringing laughter in what was essentially the aftermath of a warzone. The man's charisma is astounding. He convinced every single soldier we met within Helgen into joining the escape effort. He pulled citizens from rubble with us, and even once physically stopping a soldier trying to stab another in the back. Then berated him so soundly, the man willingly threw away his weapon in remorse. Quite a sight.

The soldiers and townspeople laugh and whoop as they leave the cave, breathing in the midday air. Smiles surround me. But for the sight of smoke in the distance behind us, there is no sign of the hell we went through here, and it is invigorating. Cheerful goodbyes are exchanged, then the groups head out; Imperials to the west, Stormcloaks to the east. Ralof, Talao, and I, however, head north to Riverwood, my hometown. Ralof's too. The dragon had gratefully passed it by, its bloodlust seemingly satisfied. But it was unlikely anyone had understood exactly what it was, if they had seen it at all. We needed to spread the word, and quickly. We would spend the night in Riverwood, then Talao would set off for Whiterun, the nearest city, and and trading capital of Skyrim, while Ralof and I would warn Riften and Markarth, respectively. The other holds would be passed through by returning soldiers, but for Dawnstar and Winterhold, more easily reached by boat couriers. The holds may be shored up for war, but dragons... That's beyond what anyone could have prepared for in this day and age.

In the meantime, however, the walk to Riverwood is subdued. True, Talao does ask a few questions about the area, and I am glad to point our a few of the sights, such as the infamous Bleak Falls Barrow - nasty place, that, and source of no few nightmares in my youth. Draugr sneaking in during the night, and all that. But for the most part, an icy silence lingers between Ralof and myself. He studiously ignores me, but I can't help wondering what goes through his mid.

We grew up together in Riverwood. Small town that it is, we became swift friends and rivals, bumping heads, but sharing a stolen mug of mead at the end of the night. He was always the impulsive one. Not to say I was smarter, simply more level-headed. Even at a young age, he and his family were utterly devoted in their worship of Talos. When the Empire's war with the Aldmeri Dominion came, we were too young to join the fight. Ralof's father died in the war, and his mother drank herself to an early grave, leaving him in the care of his sister. My father was a Legionnaire, and his before him, but both had died long before that war. So I couldn't relate to the anguish he felt during that time.

Then the terms of the White-Gold Concordat became known. At first, few in Skyrim paid much attention, as much from disbelief as disgust. How could you tell a people who they were allowed to worship? And how would you enforce their thoughts? But when word of Aldmeri Enforcers executing entire families for open worship of Talos started circulating, even Ralof took his faith behind closed doors. Until his cousin was spirited away one night. It wasn't hard to put two and two together then. I never saw a man run so fast as when word of Ulfric's rebellion reached Riverwood.

Knowing all this... Could I truly despise the man for joining the Stormcloaks?

The silence was getting to me, and the quiet swell of the river wasn't helping at all. "Hey, Talao." The Breton seems caught up in the scenery around him, and I have to call him again to catch his attention. Wish I could be so carefree. "What exactly were you doing at Darkwater Crossing when you stumbled in that ambush?"

"Nothing terribly extraordinary." Out of danger, I notice now how soothing the man's voice is; furloughs separate from the usual harsh voices I am accustomed to hearing in Skyrim. "My companion and I were merely travelling, searching for excitement."

"You're an adventurer?" Ralof asks, somewhat skeptical. I can't help but agree with him in my mind; the man is much too wiry and... Well, of course, his injury.

"Though I might sometimes wish it, no. I ply my trade as a bard. I hire or follow adventurers around, hoping to capture some new story to tell. Randolph, the man I was travelling with, had told me he was planning something grand, so I followed to see what would occur." Talao's face showed a strange combination of disappointment and glee. "Though I doubt a man idiotic enough to charge a line of Legionnaires would have amounted to more than a pitiable laugh. Ah well, at least some good came of it."

This puzzles me. "For the life of me, I can't see any bright side to your story."

He answers with an incredulous look. "Honestly? You don't see anything fantastical about the sighting of the first dragon since the Second Era? The appearance of a long-extinct race? Something world-changing is afoot, and I intend to be there to witness it!"

"Incredible indeed," Ralof replies offhandedly. "Quite the series of events that lead you to that chopping block with us. Maybe that dragon came just for you, eh?"

...I feel like I'm missing out on something important. I almost miss the slight fall of Talao's smile, as he responds, "I highly doubt that. I'm not nearly important enough for such theatrics. Lucky happenstance to be audience, that's all." Ralof seems to be scrutinizing Talao. Again, I wonder what on Nirn is going on in his head.

For better or worse, the swiftly approaching town of Riverwood interrupts our conversation. Still standing; thank the Eight the dragon passed it by. It was jarring, passing through the gate into the sleepy town. We've only just escaped the jaws of a gods-honest dragon, and yet here life goes on the same as always. As if nothing happened. Which, I suppose, would be true if no one had been looking up recently. That's life, I guess. Though if that dragon is a herald for more, I doubt even Riverwood will remain so lax. Our destination reached, we split; Ralof and I to our families, and Talao to the inn. Supposedly to gather information and supplies before heading to Whiterun.

Hopefully he'll get there before any dragons do.


	5. Sven I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 5PM**_

 **Sven**

I never particularly liked my hometown of Riverwood. Perhaps it's because of the constant state of twilight the town lives in, nestled between two of the tallest mountain ridges in Skyrim. Perhaps it's the fact that I was never the rough type, like the other children I grew up with, who always wanted to play Guards and Bandits.

Maybe it's the overwhelming presence of my mother.

Whatever the cause, no one was surprised when I leapt at the chance to leave when I'd heard the Bard's College in Solitude was searching for applicants. I scrounged together all the spare septims I had earned from doing odd jobs around town, and left despite my mother's protests. Solitude and the College were beyond anything I'd ever seen before. And when I completed my training, my freedom became infinite. I would travel wherever I desired, from Markarth to Winterhold. I even travelled to High Rock and Cyrodiil. Every inn would trade me a meal and a bed from a night of revelry. And of course, the beds were plenty large enough for two; I rarely spent a night cold and alone. It was so severed from my childhood, and I loved every minute.

And I despise every minute I waste away here in Riverwood once more.

I'll admit it's hardly the worst place I've plied my trade. Winterhold comes to mind; no amount of the finest Blackbriar Reserve promised by the innkeeper could convince me to spend another bitter cold night amongst those equally bitter mages and malcontents. I look around from the porch of my mother's house. Here, at least, the weather is serene, the patrons are boisterous, and that old haggler Delphine pays me a decent wage for my nights at the inn. Good Colovian Brandy, too. Not that Honnngbrew swill from down the road. Too bad all the women in town were married and, more importantly, faithful. (Not altogether too terrible a problem, hard to avoid a cuckolded husband when you live mere houses away.)

From the corner of my eye, I notice movement at the Riverwood Trader. Lucky me, the one unattached woman in all Riverwood is arranging wares in plain view. Camila Valerius. A gorgeous Imperial woman who opened the store with her brother sometime during my absence. Despite my best efforts, and her obvious interest, I've yet to entice her into bed. I've had more than my fair share of rejection, from whispered apologies to slaps and thrown drinks. But this... This is different. I've never pined after the local tavern wench, or felt pangs of jealousy when they flirted with other men or mer. I wonder when I realized I was courting Camila rather than merely chasing her skirt.

It's due to this recent realization I find myself scowling, despite her presence nearby. Not because of Camila, but because of another man, chopping wood just across the path, thankfully out of sight. A rival of love, and the main obstacle standing between myself and Camila. Faendal. The damned pointy-eared tree-hugger somehow managed to worm his way into Camila's life. And for some gods-awful reason, she seems just as interested. I silently seeth as I furtively glare at the wood elf, working away in silence. What she sees in the waif-ish fool, I can't tell. Even now, he's lazing about, chatting up some stranger in robes. But their private conversations and shared laughter during my sets at the inn make it all too clear how close they are growing. It's unbearable.

I hear a yelling from behind me, startling me out of my silent animosity. Reluctantly I face the second roadblock to my romance. My mother.

"A dragon! I saw a dragon!" She raves, pointing to the sky.

For a moment, I'm completely puzzled. "What? What is it now, mother?"

"It was as big as the mountain, and black as night. It flew right over the barrow!"

Gods, it's getting worse. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother, if you keep on like this, everyone in town will think you're crazy." The fact that she undeniable was touched in the head notwithstanding. "And I've got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies."

With that, my mother droops her head and shuffles away, muttering under her breath petulantly; "You'll see. It was a dragon. It'll kill us all, and then you'll believe me."

My mother. The bane of my life. I'd been sojourning in Cyrodiil when a courier found me, bearing a letter that mother had contracted Brain Fever. I rushed home, expecting a funeral, but instead finding a brain-addled parent who had survived almost certain death. Whether blessing or curse, I was unsure, considering it left her incapable of caring for herself.

And so I remain.

...

"She's right, you know."

I near jump straight out of my clothes at the sudden voice behind me, turning to find the stranger from earlier standing just over my shoulder. "S...Sorry?"

"About the dragon. She did see one. I'm Talao, by the way."

I take his proffered hand instinctively. "Sven. I'm sorry, but did you just say my mother actually saw a _dragon?_ Surely, you jest. It's not possible; dragons have been extinct since the Second Era."

"Ah, true. I suppose the flaming ruins of Helgen were assaulted by a figment of my imagination then."

I laugh nervously, but the man's expression doesn't change. "By the gods, you're serious. Helgen gone?" Visions of Riverwood going the way of Helgen flashed before my eyes, and I had to repress a shudder. "You had best tell the Jarl in Whiterun. He needs to know about this."

"Most certainly, Sven. But I need your help with something, and that fellow Faendal said you might be able to assist me." I must not have been able to disguise my disgust at the mention of the damned elf, as he continues, "Faendal made the same face before he mentioned your name. Bad blood?"

Frankly, I wasn't sure how much I should tell the man. Gossip is always less enticing when the subject is yourself. But along the same lines, my love life is hardly a secret in this town, and he'd be certain to hear about the particulars soon enough. And better he take my side than that wretched wood-elf. Mayhap he could even help me somehow. "I suppose you could say we're rivals of love. Camila Valerius knows I'm the best man in Riverwood. That elf is kidding himself if he thinks she would choose him over me. I've seen him sneaking over to the Riverwood Trader to speak with her when I'm not around. He's wasting his time."

A wry look appears on Talao's face. "Yes, two people spending time together never blossoms into courtship."

His response peeves me. "Is that sarcasm? I've heard better wisecracks from Orgnar, and I've never seen him smile." At this, Talao bursts into laughter, rather than become insulted. It puts me at ease, knowing he can take a barb in good nature. "Still, you have a point. Camila letting Faendal visit her isn't a good thing for me."

"What do you plan to do about it? Though, far be it from me to intrude on your business..."

Yes, he could definitely help me. "Perhaps... I could forge a letter filled with venemous nonsense. If you delivered it to Camila and claimed it was from Faendal, she'd be sure to spurn his advances." I almost laugh at the simplistic brilliance of it.

However, instead of agreement, I found myself faced with silence. "I do hope that wasn't your final plan."

Confusion. Irritation. "And why not?"

"You seem under the impression she'll take the letter at face value," he says, crossing his arms. "But what if she confronts Faendal about it? Or if he seeks her out?"

This gives me pause, as my mind reels at the possibilities. "He might convince her he didn't write it. And I'd be the obvious suspect."

"Aye. You'd likely come off as rather childish and desperate."

"Driving Camila further into Faendal's arms." I sigh, my good mood deflating. "God's what a fool I am. What am I supposed to do?"

"Do you love her?"

Do I love her? What an asinine question. But before I fire off a witty retort, I realize his question is one I had never truly considered before. Camila was a beautiful woman, to be sure. But had I ever regarded her as... more? Someone to spend the rest of my life with, rather than a night or two of passion?

The answer came more quickly than I would have imagine. "Yes. I do."

Talao's face breaks out into a broad smile. "Then what are you waiting for? Go tell her so. As only a bard can."

As only a bard can? "Well, I had been composing a ballad for her..."

"Rubbish. Toss it."

"Pardon? You just said..."

Still the grin doesn't leave his face. "Composing is far too cerebral for a declaration of love. Save it for an anniversary or a wedding. Find you lass, and spill your heart to her. Let your emotions flow like a stream, and the sincerity will do far more than any mere couplet."

It all seems... Too simple. I want to protest, to tell him of every barrier that stands between us, but he interrupts me once more; "No, no protestations, no excuses. Whatever you may think is holding you back, it's nothing that will dissuade her if she truly returns your feelings."

Somehow, his words inspire me with the confidence I had been lacking. "If this works, you can have whatever it is that you had planned to ask me for earlier." I've never wanted to be in someone's debt more than this minute.


	6. Ralof II

**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 6PM**

 _Ralof_

 _I have a problem,_ a voice in my head slurs as I look into my flagon of mead. Empty. Another voice slurs, _Yes, the problem is that my cup is empty._ "Orgnar. Another pint."

"You sure about that pal? You're already three pints in.

I slam my cup onto the bar, perhaps harder than intended. "Are you the barkeep, or my mother? I don't see any tits on you, so fill the damn cup! If you'd seen what I'd seen this day, you'd be looking for Oblivion in the bottom of a cup as well!"

If my outburst phased the man at all, his apathetic face sure doesn't betray it as he takes my cup to the tap. "Fine. But don't blame me when you throw your septims up later outside." As he returns the full cup to me, he asks, "And what was so terrifying that it'd cause such a fine soldier as yourself to drink mead like water?"

"A dragon, you old goat!" Damn my drunken mouth, I spit it out without thinking. This at least seems to startle the stoic barkeep. His eyes widen, and I notice old Delphine stop sweeping and stiffen as well.

"A dragon, eh?" Orgnar scratches his stuffy beard. "Sure you were sober when you walked in here?"

Before I can retort, the last voice I want to hear sounds from behind me."He's telling the truth." Bloody Hadvar. Of course. He walks in, sitting at the other end of the bar. "A gods-honest dragon appeared at Helgen. The town's little more than a pile of rubble now.

Of course, the bastards believe him immediately. I suppose an Imperial uniform gives you credibility regardless of the claim. I see Delphine turn white and dash into a sideroom, and Orgnar offers Hadvar a drink.

"Honningbrew," Hadvar responds.

"Pah, why not just order a mug of milk if you've not the stomach for a real drink." The insult has both men bristling, and I take my drink and myself to a nearby table. The stumble might have taken some of the bite away, but damned if I'll sit in the company of damned traitors.

The tavern is mercifully empty as I nurse my Black-Briar Reserve in silence. Though I know it won't last, this close to evening. It was unseasonable warm, and you could count on the locals whetting their parched throats with a mug or two after they finish their work. For some reason, it reminded me of my time with the Stormcloaks. We trained under a bastard of a man called Galmar Stone-Fist. Every day we trained damn near nonstop from dawn to dusk. And every day, he made sure we trained hardest when the sun was highest. Sad we'd need to be ready to fight at any time; "Your enemy won't care if you're too hot to put your shield between you and them." Spent weeks constantly exhausted before I got used to it.

Yet for all that, it seems old habits die hard. One measly dragon attack and I fall back into old patterns. It's familiar. And calming. Then someone drops on the bench beside me, interrupting the calming familiarity of my drink. "By Talos, can't you tell when a man wants to enjoy his drink alone?"

"You don't look like you're enjoying much of anything right now." Godsdamned Hadvar. Never learned to shut his mouth for anything. "The Ralof I used to know would've been glorying on about his escape from near-certain death. Regaling his story to everyone in town."

"What do you want, Imperial?"

He pauses a moment. "Company."

I scoff, but since he seems subdued now, I go back to my mug. A few moment pass in silence, the first few villagers starting to trickle in from their mills and fields. Amazing how careless they seem; even without knowing about the dragon, it's as if the sleepy town has been unaffected by the war. A bloody war, right under their noses. Blessing there, else someone might have called the Imperials to clap me in irons again. How easy it might be, just to stay here and resume the simple life I led before I enlisted under Ulfric.

"I don't hate you, you know?" It took me a second to realize Hadvar was speaking to me. The look on his face almost seems... Wistful? "For joining the rebels... Sorry, the Stormcloaks."

"What are you on about?"

He chews on his words before speaking again. "I know you probably despise me for joining the Legion. Expected me to defect once Ulfric's call went out. But I don't hate you for becoming a Stormcloak. You followed your heart and you went out to make a change. Hell, maybe I even envy you. I was always content to follow orders. Even as lads, you'd be the one making up the adventures we acted out."

Had I drunk anymore than I had already, I'd have assumed I was hallucinating. Unfortunately, I was sober enough to consider his words. A few hours ago - was it only hours? - we'd been set to tear out each others' throats. But was it truly because we hated each other?

"If you had asked me this morning," I said, "what I thought of my old childhood friend Hadvar, I would have made Talos himself blush with the obscenities to pass my lips. I considered every Imperial godless bastards, guilty of allowing or helping the damn Thalmor of every crime they committed. Hadvar's grip tightens on his mug, and I watch his face steel up.

"But... Now I remember... Or you just reminded... You're all people, same as me. You helped save all those townsfolk from that great black beast. You joined the legion to try to change things, no different than I. And you'd be an even greater traitor by betraying the oaths to your cause solely because of your cowardly commanders." I grin at Hadvar. "Come now, if I truly wanted you dad, I'd have let that dragon carry you away this morning."

I must have surprised him, as he takes a moment to retort. "And here I though you were just saving Talao and I was in the way."

"Might have helped." We chuckle together, and just like that, it's as if we are young again, sharing a mug. Only now the ale isn't snuck out from under our parents' noses. And for the next few hours, we forget that we might find each other opposite our blades on the field of battle soon.


	7. Balgruuf I

_**Morndas, 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 6PM**_

 **Balgruuf**

I am the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater. I enjoy my place, caring for my people as best I can. However, nothing could have prepared me for the headache I face this day. Nothing my father taught me could have prepared me for dragons.

When the reports first came in, I admit I scoffed at the lone scout. Paranoid ramblings, I thought, the product of an overworked soldier's mind. At least until I spotted one of the damned things myself from my balcony during my midday meal. I heard it scream, and felt fire burn in my veins, the fear and desire to fight bursting forth from my soul.

Pity then, my place requires such tedium as this.

"My Lord, please, you must listen. I only counsel caution."

The words of my advisor, Avenicci. Smart enough, and truly a political genius, but at times - like now - his cowardly Imperial blood shows through. Not that I would ever say so to his face.

"If the news from Helgen is true... Well, there's no telling what it means."

Inaction is Avenicci's favorite strategy. Not that action is always the better option, but standing idly by has never been the Nord way. "What would you have me do, then? Nothing?!"

"My Lord, this is no time for _rash action._ I just think we need more information before we act. I just..."

Inaction again. Even the rumour of the kind of destruction reported at Helgen should be enough to warrant some kind of measure, defensive or otherwise. Politics be damned if it cost me the lives of my people. This is just like the Giant incident from last Frostfall. I look around for some distraction, that the 9... 8 might grant me the patience to endure this farce of a meeting. Must to my surprise as I find one. Two, in fact. A pair of strangers, stopped at the head of the dining hall by my Housecarl, Irileth. A Dunmer, and the most loyal fighter I;ve had the fortune to battle alongside, who showed me the true meaning of the phrase, "blood is thicker than water."

"Who's this then?"

The two strangers sink to their knees and state their names, as Irileth whispiers to me what little she had been told.

"Sven, of Riverwood."

"Talao, of High Rock."

Hmm, a Nord and a Breton. Sven I vaguely recall having entertained at the Huntsman a while back, on one of my nighttime jaunts. The Breton is not familiar to me, though both seem quite comfortable at court. And odd combination, the two of them. Hardly the time for reminiscing, though.

"So, Irileth tells me you were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with you own eyes?" An eyewitness account of the destruction is all I need to convince Avenicci to act... Or more likely, enough to properly overrule his counsel.

Sven shifts slightly; "Not I, my Jarl, but Talao here was present. I merely guided him to you, out of concern for our town's safety."

"Yes, I had a great view of it as the Empire was about to chop off my head. I do a terrible chicken impression."

I blink. "You're certainly..." Blunt, I wish to say. But that would be blunt of me. "Forthcoming about your criminal past."

The Breton grins in response. "Nay, I said they wished to execute me, not that I was guilty of any crime. Regardless, I imagine the threat of a dragon capable of razing an entire town filled with Imperial troops would take precedence over the circumstances of my capture."

Kynareth save me, the man's tongue is inlaid with more silver than my cutlery. But he is certainly correct. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

"My Lord," Irileth says, "We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger." A dark look crosses her face, and I can imagine the scene playing in her mind. "If that dragon is still lurking in the mounains..."

Surprisingly, Avenicci interject once again, "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should not..."

"ENOUGH!" The vehemence in my voice didn't truly match my emotions. Perhaps it was the thought that anyone would think I would join Ulfric the Storm Cloak. Maybe it was my frustration at practically having to babysit my own counselors instead of mediate an actual discussion. More likely, it's to prevent Irileth from murdering Avenicci where he stands, if the murderous mask on her her face is aught to go by. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl." To my relief, she salutes and leaves without further issue.

Avenicci, however, looks as though someone had run a rancid potion underneath his nose. "If you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend."

"That would be best." To be sure, the man is invaluable to my court, and has a knack for thinking through any negative reactions from others. For certain, I'll have him draw up a missive to the Jarl of Falkreath to reassure him of my neutrality and warn him of the dragon. By my first duty is, was, and will always be the safety of those under my banner. Speaking of which...

"Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. As a reward, I shall grant each of you a small token of my esteem.." They both smile, and I lean forward in anticipation of their answers... Well, one of them at least. Sven seems a loyal but simple Nord, but the steel within Talao intrigues me. It did not escape my gaze, the gleam within his eye as he mentioned the dragon. Perhaps there is truth to the idea that Bretons have Nordic blood within them.

"My Jarl," Sven begins, "I am truly grateful for you offer, but the guards you have dispatched to watch over my village is reward enough."

"Nonsense. It is my duty and privilege to protect the people under my care. I wish to honor you personally."

"Well," he looks uncomfortable, but I urge him on with a smile of my own. "In that case, my Jarl, I have just yesterday found myself promised to a beautiful young woman. In no small part thanks to my brave friend here. If you would gift us some livestock to help begin our lives, I would be forever grateful."

"A most reasonable and thoughtful request. I'll discuss the particulars with my steward, but I assure you it will be done before your wedding. "A cow and several hogs should be more than sufficient."

"Many thanks, my Jarl."

"And you?" I turn to Talao. "What gift may I bestow upon you?"

"Well, sir, I am but a humble bard. Whereas my friend here is a tree about to set his roots, I am as the wind, travelling wheresoever my story goes. I have little need for material things, but I should truly enjoy performing fo your court some day."

"Truly?" A bard, then. Like Sven himself. That would indeed explain much. "You wish only to ply your trade here in Dragonsreach?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Jarl. Well, once I replace my instrument, that is." At this, he ruffles his hair, looking rather sheepish for once. "I fear my old one is naught but ash by now."

Hmm. Self-serving, but not selfish... Yes, he'll do, I think. "If that is your desire, it shall be done. Kyne willing, you'll not deafen us as our last bard did, though I use the title loosely. And I imagine far as you are from your home, you'll have many tales to tell us." I stand, and they follow. "Again, I thank you for your service. My blessings on your union, Sven, and may Kyne grants you warm winds and fertile fields. "I pause a moment, that my dismissal is clear, and as they turn to leave, I call out, "Talao, a word, if I may?" The two share a glance, and a brief farewell before he returns to face me.

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?"

"There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps." To his confused look, I say, "Come, let's find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... Rumors of dragons." As I lead him to a side chamber, my mind is racing with how best to entice Talao into this errand. He may not be a warrior, but I sense that his presence may mean the difference between survival and destruction. I know the stories of what the return of the dragons signifies, but damned if I'll not do my best to avert catastrophe.

* * *

Greetings, readers. Long time no see. I promised to keep A/Ns to a minimum for this story and let it speak for itself, but I felt the need to apologize for the long break. Fret not, I am here to stay, personal life aside. I have a sketch of the story from beginning to end, and several chapters ahead written. Expect upwards of 70 chapters of bard-y goodness.

As far as travel times goes, I actually spent several hours trying to figure it out. You can PM me for the math, but in order to make the distances meaningful and sensical, 1 mile in game is roughly equivalent to _**200** _ miles in this fic. This makes the province of Skyrim about the size of an average European country. Similarly, height-wise 1 mile in game is equivalent to 10 miles of height in the fic, which makes Monahven equivalent to the size of Mount Everest.

Any other questions are, of course, welcome.


	8. Farengar I

_**Sunday, 17**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 6pm**_

 **Farengar**

I am Farengar, of the Secret-Fire. No, my name is not the result of idle gossip over a flame I harbour for this or that maid in town - or man, as some for some reason think. But it is true I have a secret obsession.

Dragons.

Ever since my youth, the Nord tales of dragon-killing legends held me like no other. Who care for the sordid exploits of Ragnar the Dead when massive scaled beasts who razed towns with their fiery breath still existed in legend? Why listen to the affairs of Daedra when one could envision taking to the skies astride a dragon? Yes, that was what inspired me; the magic of eld.

How disappointing, then, to discover nearly all Tamriel's information regarding them was oral and apocryphal. The College of Winterhold held scant few books on the topic. And of course, the College of Whispers and the Synods are too busy jockeying for power to share what little they recovered over the years. I even petitioned the Greybeards atop the Throat of the World for their help, but my query was ignored by the recluses. I suppose with their supposed extinction, nobody saw fit to keep records about dragons. Nothing on physiology, or migratory patterns, or even behaviour. (Unless you believe the stories that paint them all as mindless harbingers of death. Which I don't.) All I could find when I began was the fact that dragons had their own language, spoken and written, and that these words gave dragons the powers told of in stories. I even stumbled upon an alphabet, but no dictionary of words. That was it.

A dozen seasons I spent, following the most minuscule of leads, expanding what little knowledge I had of the fell beasts. Comparing stories to find common links. Looking for vague references in unrelated texts from three eras ago.

Along the way, I suppose I became a mage of some renown, and would up a court wizard to the Jarl of Whiterun. Would I were not tied down, but man cannot live by will alone. And I suppose the extra influence from my position is useful when requesting some obscure text from a private collection. But even then, my obsession was largely ridiculed for its seeming uselessness. Not that I cared what others might have thought; knowledge for my own personal desires was more than enough for me.

Well, at least until yesterday. I suppose some legends aren't to remain solely legends. And suddenly, my amusing hobby has made me the most valuable citizen under the Jarl's employ.

Thus, I find myself poring over my notes, all the information I've gathered in an effort to prepare for... Well, whatever may come. Destruction, most likely. Weaknesses to exploit, strengths to defend against. But there's stills o little we know. If only the Jarl would let me complete this recent request, but no, I'm locked up here and...

I feel a tug at the ward I placed upon my door, signalling that someone has entered my rooms. And more importantly, disrupting my concentration. It's annoying, if necessary. I once ignored Avenicci for five minutes once, I was so engrossed in my own thoughts. Doesn't help that the man is more dull than Heimskr's incessant babbling.

Where was I again? Right, visitors.

I step out into the receiving area, and find Balgruuf himself waiting for me. Along with... Some other man? Gods, I hope I haven't met him before; I hate forgetting names and faces. Note to self, look into perhaps making a journal to record people's names and characteristics, so I'm not clueless about every person who walks in.

"My Jarl."

"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill Talao in on the details." Odd. The Jarl usually wastes time on pleasantries when he visits. Well, I suppose the current situation has everyone a bit off-kilter, even Balgruuf.

The man in question seems a bit... Shrimpy. Nothing in particular stands out to me; he seems rather bland. "So, the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" Certainly no warrior, no armor, no weapons. "He must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me."

"That's it?" he asks.

I hesitate for a second. But the Jarl seems convinced, if his look is anything to go by. I suppose it's on him if the unlucky bastard dies. "Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

He blinks. Stunned and confused, if I read his expression correctly. "And this has, uh, what to do with dragons, exactly?"

Damn. Definitely spooked him. Maybe I shouldn't have been so blunt with him. My doubts grow, but again, Balgruuf must have chosen him for a reason. Perhaps if I try stroking his ego; I find that works wonders. "Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker - perhaps even a scholar?"

"Of a sort, I suppose. I'm a bard by profession.

We're doomed.

No, stop that. Find the common ground... Stories! "You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons a while back - where had they gone all those years ago? And where could they be coming from now?"

He nods, his earlier hesitation gone. "To be sure, our own history is often the key to understanding the present." Smart man. I truly hope he comes back alive. "What do you hope to find in this ruin?"

"Of course. I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed within Bleak Falls Barrow - a "Dragonstone," - said to contain a map of dragon burial sites."

"Burial sites? Are you planning to exhume a corpse? Or..." His eyes widen, "Perhaps they're, what, being resurrected."

"Possible. I highly doubt it flew here from Akavir, since all sources seem to agree they all left en masse. Necromancy is an option, though it begs the question why only now has such a thing happened. We don't know, which is where you come in. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred within the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"This is a priority now," Balgruuf interjects. Obviously. "Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly. Before it's too late."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf." Of course, it only took the imminent destruction of Whiterun to inspire interest in my work. Silver linings. "You seem to have found me an able assistant. I'm sure he will prove most useful." And I suppose I do mean it. A little.

"Succeed at this, and you will be rewarded. Whiterun will be truly in your debt. Speak to Proventus if you should need any supplies for your trip, as I'm sure you're running low after your ordeal at Helgen." With that declaration, which I'm sure he thought very grand, Balgruuf exits, leaving Talao and myself alone. I can't help but sigh heavily. Working with others can be so tedious. But sadly necessary. Back to my research then. Based on the shape of the skull of the dragon above the Jarl's throne, (how ghastly) it seems clear that...

"Ahem." The sound startles me, and it take a moment to realize it's Talao. Standing in the same place. "You're still here?"

"Yes," he replies with a grimace. "See, while I'm indeed grateful for the trust your Jarl has placed in me, I'm... Well, not a terribly seasoned fighter. In fact, you could say I'm utter rubbish in a fight."

"Your point?"

"I'm about to dive into a Nordic ruin, which from past experience can often house Draugr, bandits, and other things that would gladly tear the flesh from my bones. I need some manner of protection beyond whatever supplies I can gather in town."

Reasonable enough. Smart not to go barreling to his death, at least. "Well, I do have a small collection of spell tomes for sale here, but I doubt you would be able to learn anything of value overnight. You could always find some easily swayed mercenary at the local tavern that's daring or dull enough to join you. Though I would prefer you keep my research between as few people as possible. It wouldn't do to worry the locals about something so trivial as our utter lack of understanding of dragons."

"No, certainly not," he laughs. "Thank you for the information."

As he turns to leave, I'm struck by a bout of inspiration. "Wait a moment." I dash into a side-room I use to store things on which I'm not currently working, to grab... Damn where is it? Aha! There. An old staff, carved into the likeness of a golden dragon. Though it's fade so thoroughly it seems mere yellow now. I return and present it to him. "This is an old staff of mine, back from when my research was... Less sedate. It's enchanted with a basic Fireball spell. Perfect for combating undead and bandits alike. I keep it charged, but old as it is I don't know how many casts it will last for. Better than anything you'll find at Belethor's, though, I guarantee."

He takes it reverently. Or maybe fearfully, as if he's afraid it might explode. Hmm, that's a frightful thought, can staves explode under certain conditions? Add it to the research list. "Thank you, Farengar. I shall treat it well."

"See that you do. I would like it back in one piece, if possible, but better if it should help you complete my task." Strange that I'd part with it after so long, but I suppose it's been gathering dust anyway. Besides, my history is locked safely within my own mind. I wave farewell to... By Julianos, I've already forgotten his name. I'll just check with Balgruuf at some point. Now... All dragon stories feature fire-breathing, so we'll need to stockpile reservoirs of water. Perhaps we can ward against it? Or is their magic so different that they'll be ineffective? What about...


	9. Uthgerd I

_**Morndas 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 8PM**_

 **Uthgerd**

The name's Uthgerd. The Unbroken. It's a good, strong name that I earned because of my unbreakable will. No beast has broken it. No woman, either. And certainly no bloody man.

So then why'm I five tankards in for the fourth night in a row?... Oh right, I killed a man. No, not a man, a boy. A whelp with a big mouth and no arm. Fuck. What's the point of all the mead if I can still remember my sins at the end of the night. I guzzle down the last swig, and slam the tankard down. "Hulda. 'Nother."

Within a minute, the barmaid pours more mead into my tankard. And there's a queer look on her face. Worry? Disappointment? Can't tell. That's good. Not that I care anyway. I've enough coin from my last jobs to sit here for the next fortnight. Well, maybe less at this rate. Maybe I'll switch over to Honningbrew... Black-Briar is expensive.

It's a decent night at the Bannered Mare. Busy, but not packed. Meek... Mack... The bard is making eyes at some girl while he plays his flute. Saadia is serving people. Thankfully, no one has tried to invade my lone corner tonight. Better that way...

"Do you mind if I sit here?

Shor's bloody bones, why do I jinx myself? "Yes, I bloody well _do_ mind." I can see him clearly, despite my drinking. A waif of a man, not an ounce of muscle on him. Wearing robes, too. And he's pretty short too. Then again, I'm damn tall myself... And he's still here. "Move along, softgut. I'm more woman than you can handle."

He grins. "You thought I was coming over here to... What, proposition you?"

"Why else? I'll have you know I've fended off advances from men who were twice the man as you. Literally." For some reason, he laughs at this, then takes a seat at my table. Grumbling, I wonder if it'd be worth it to ignore Hulda's warnings about scaring off any more of her customers.

"I was just curious."

"Curious?"

"Aye." He waves down Saadia and orders a glass of Alto wine. Pah. Can't stomach a real drink, I suppose. "A woman alone at a tavern in a corner, whilst reveling occurs all 'round."

"Never seen a woman drowning her sorrows before?"

"Of course I have. But stories are my trade." He smiles at me again. I do hope he's not thinking it's comforting. "I'd like to hear yours, that's all. I've a sense for these things."

"Really?" He nods... To Oblivion with Hulda, I'll find somewhere else to stay. "You want to hear how I ran through a boy of fourteen summers?" The look of shock on his face goads me on. "How the Companions thought it funny to face me against a child for entrance into their little club? How I watched the light fade from his eyes because he couldn't hold a guard? Or maybe when they cried I was too hot-headed, the weak pathetic cowards!?" I stand, then fall back in my seat, head throbbing.

And then I notice now the tavern has gone silent but for the fire. Guess I was too loud. Damn it. Sure enough, Hulda is storming toward me, yelling. "Shor's Bones, this is the last straw, Uthgerd! I told you..."

"Please! Don't, not on my account." The hell? Why is this skinny bastard arguing for me? "It was my fault, I antagonized her."

Hulda glares at me. I turn away. "Fine. Be that way. But if she causes trouble again, I'm tossing you both out. Clear?"

"As a summer's day, Mistress."

She throws one last glare my way before leaving, and the tavern starts breathing again. Bastards. As if I were some bloody entertainment. "You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. I felt awful." A pause. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

I scoff. "Cant've been in town long then. It's all these gossips can talk about."

"Only arrived today. And don't mind them. They'll forget all about it once the next juicy story comes along. Like goblins upon meat."

"Aye." I know he's right. I try to go back to drinking, but it's no use; I can feel the angry tears pushing themselves out. "Godsdamnit!" I nearly slam my tankard down once more, just catching myself. "It was an accident. I told them. Why wouldn't they believe me?" To his credit, the scrawny git doesn't try to comfort me or anything. Just sips his nancy wine.

Once I get a hold of myself, he speaks up again. "I suppose I should admit it wasn't solely curiosity that brought me over here. I _do_ have a proposition for you, thought not the kind you accused me of."

"Would you get to the point already?" My anger seems to have burnt out.

"As you wish. I don't suppose you've heard about the dragons?"

What? "Those old fairy tales? Is spooky ol' Farengar drumming up his 'research' again?"

"And then some. Those old fairy tales? Destroyed Helgen."

I give a hearty laugh. Just one. Until I notice the haunted look on his face. Like... The one I saw this morning in my washbasin. My own. "Kyne's word?" He nods. By the gods. Dragons? Helgen destroyed? That's... Shit.

"The Jarl has contracted me to assist Farengar by retrieving an artifact of some value from a nearby Nordic ruin. But, as I'm sure you've noticed," he says, with his wry grin returning, "this 'softgut' is no fighter. I need help, and protection."

"So what, you're looking for a bodyguard?"

"I'd prefer someone who can think for themselves."

Hah. A good answer. "And what's in this for me? I don't do charity work."

"Nor does the Jarl, I assure you. He's promised me a reward for doing this. If he doesn't extend you the same, I'll gladly share with you what he gives me. But..." he leans closer to me, a fierce gleam in his eye. "More than anything, you'll earn the Jarl's gratitude and favor. And that can open more doors than a thousand Septims. Like the doors of Joorvaskr."

If my glare could shoot flames, the man would do a fine reenactment of King Olaf. But he ignores me, sipping his wine, as though he hadn't just casually offered me my life's dream by helping him. How long had I dreamed of joining the Companions? Five years? Ten? Their deeds, old and new, are known throughout Tamriel. To join their ranks... Few things could match that honor. To be given a second chance...

But still... Dragons. Just thinking about the word sends a chill down my spine. As if I were remembering something long forgotten. It was... Exciting. And truly, what else was holding me here now? "What's your name?"

"Talao. And yours?"

"It's Uthgerd. And you, Talao, shall have my sword at your side. We leave at dawn." His grin near splits his face as we grasp each others' forearms. I can't help but mirror it.

At least until I overcorrect and fall clear off my chair. Damn mead, I think, as Talao guffaws in his chair. Gods, there aren't enough drinks in the world.


	10. Uthgerd II

Tirdas, 19th of Last Seed 4E201 5AM

Uthgerd

I've never understood who some people play jokes on others. Once, when I was seven, some kids my age gave me a stick, telling me it was a magic wand that would make my mother give me extra treats. Needless to say, it didn't work, and the boys laughed at me when I told them of the spanking my mother gave me when I ordered her to give me another sweetroll after dinner. They stopped laughing when I broke one's tooth and blacked the other's eye. So no, "pranking" has never been a past time of mine.

Why, then, did I feel such joy over the sight of Talao leaping out of his bed, drenched in water? Revenge, maybe. Well, not my problem he hadn't woken up earlier. I toss the now empty pail at him while he sputters away. "You overslept. Get into your traveling gear, get your pack, then meet me at the gates of this city in ten minutes, or I'm leaving without you."

The sound of his hurried steps follow me until I exit the inn. Then nothing. It's always bothered me just how quiet a city can be before dawn. Out in the wilderness, you're surrounded by noise. Insects buzzing, elk bleating, rivers flowing. Here, not even the most optimistic vendor has yet set up. I wrap my cloak more tightly around my armour, and set out to the gates, boots crunching in the frosty ground. Whiterun is warmer than most of Skyrim, but the province's famous chill is never far off, especially at night. I learned that the hard way a long time ago...

A patrol passes me by, and talks to the guard standing beside the gate. Shift change, most likely. I can see them throwing glances my way from inside their helmets, like they're expecting me to attack them. I ignore them, leaning against the wall. No doubt they recognize me and... What I did. I suppose getting out of town is the best I could do. Give the rumours time to die off, and for me to put it to rest.

Before long, I see Talao walking swiftly toward the gates. I notice an odd hitch in his step, and a cane or staff in his hand, as if he were hobbled. Great, he's a cripple too. That's going to increase our travel time. I seriously cannot catch a break.

"You said we were to leave at dawn! It's well before then!"

Hmph. "I said dawn, not sunrise. There's light enough in the sky to see the path, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we can get to... Wait, where in Kyne's name are we headed?"

"Oh." He seems embarrassed at his oversight, as the gates close behind us. "Bleak Fall Barrow, just overlooking Riverwood. It'll take us most of the day to reach Riverwood, so we should spend the night there, or make camp near the base of the mountain."

"Fair enough." The road out of Whiterun is smooth, from the thousand of wheels, horses, and feet that use it every day. I see, our of the corner of my eye, Talao keeping pace with me, no difficulty despite his odd gait. An old injury then, one he's spent a long time with. Somehow I doubt I'll see him sprinting anytime soon, but at the least, we won't take threefold the time to get anywhere. Hopefully, he holds up as well on the mountain.

The Khajiit are up and moving as well, the fire from their camp burning brightly. I eye them with a cautious respect. I've bought supplies from their caravans many a time to make my travels easier, and it takes some guys to wander a country during a war. But I drew my cloak tighter around myself anyway, not from the chill. They aren't allowed within the city walls for a reason, after all.

"Wares for the weary traveler?" A grey-ish brown cat asks me, his eyelids half-open, but attentive. A sign he's relaxed. At least, I think that's what it means. All I really remember about Khajiit behaviors is that you should run if they "smile" at you, unless you like bite marks on your ass. "Ah, but this Breton Ri'saad remembers. It is Talao, yes?"

"Aye. Pleasure to see you, Ri'saad." He waves to the other caravaners, who return the gesture. Interesting how at ease he acts with them.

"Ri'saad is please to see Talao as well this morning."

"Is it morning?" he grumbles. "It still feels like night to me."

The cat - Ri'saad, I try to remember - hums, like a purr almost. "Ah, the Breton does not enjoy losing his rest. Khajiit finds dawn most invigorating. The slow rise of the sun, and of the sounds of the day, the smell of the dew upon the grass."

"Just smells strange to me."

We're getting off track. "We need to get moving if we want to reach Riverwood by nightfall, Talao." My pack is still rather full from my last outing, but I buy a few potions and some hardtack, just in case. Talao does the same, also grabbing a flask of wine, happily chatting about how alcohol can be just as helpful as a fire on a cold night.

Despite my best efforts, the chatty Khajiit drags Talao into another conversation. "Ri'saad has noticed that Talao is no longer wearing the robes sold by this one. Did the player forget them in some fair maid's home?"

"Nothing quite so titillating, Ri'saad, but infinitely more interesting," Talao chuckles. "I was capture by Imperials, but then saved by a dragon!" The cats murmur in the background, as Talao spreads his arms wide. "Picture it: A misty dawn in Falkreath Hold. The sleepy town of Helgen awakened by a brigade of imprisoned Stormcloaks, preparing for sentence from their Imperials captors. Among them, a lone innocent, a victim of circumstance. He awaits, hopelessly, his inexorable fate. The chopping block taunting him with freshly spilled blood. But fate has other plans, unbeknownst to him as he is forced upon the block. A great roar resounds through the valley. The innocent looks up, past the gleaming executioner's blade, and a monstrous beast descends, clad in armor darker than blackest night, gleaming in the first rays of the morning, as if from Aetherius itself! Saving the innocent from the cold bite of death by mere seconds, and the chaos affords him the opportunity to escape."

"Hmm. Ri'saad believes this is the most outlandish story Talao has yet shared."

Silently, I agree. The man has a way with words that makes Mikael seem a brutish oaf in comparison, but the story is absurd. Although, there must be a reason the Jarl entrusted... A man like him with such an important task. Unless he's embellishing that as well.

"Outlandish, yes. But every word true."

The Khajiit strokes his chin, continuing, "This one has, however, heard rumours of the return of the winged lizards, few though these rumours may be."

"I've only seen the one," Talao responds, "but if one dragon survived supposed extinction, there could be more. And one is more than enough, if that one was anything to go by. It destroyed an entire town, holding an Imperial garrison, by itself. I'd hate for our next meeting to be with a burnt corpse, so eyes to the sky."

"A life without risk is not one worth living, Breton. But then, it is best to remain alive to witness it in its entirety. Khajiit will take precautions."

"That is all I ask." Enough of this drivel. I nudge Talao sharply and begin walking off. He spits out a hasty farewell, "May your roads lead you to warm sands," and catches up.

The sky has brightened a bit, though the sun has yet to rise. I notice the head of Talao's cane, shaped like a dragon. A staff then, not a cane. "You a mage, Breton?" I ask, gesturing at the staff.

"Ah, no. A gift from Farengar. Sadly, I have very little aptitude for magickal arts."

Now that was odd. "A Breton with no magicka?"

"Aye, strange, I know." He grins ruefully. "I'm a bard. I don't think I mentioned."

"No, but after your story, I might have guessed. Still..." The question was still burning in my mind, so I decided just to ask. "Why would the Jarl choose you to go into a Barrow, famous for active Draugr sightings, if you have no combat expertise?"

"A fair question," he replies, shrugging. "I suppose I did think it odd how quickly he trusted me, but given the direness of the situation, perhaps he thought there was not enough time to find a more suitable person. Farengar did mention not wanting to spread rumours, and seeing as I was one of the survivors at Helgen... Hold up."

"What?" We've reached the bend at the White River, just at the bounds of Whiterun's farmland. Talao stops, staring up the hilly road to the south, but I see nothing. " _What_? Is it the hill? You can't expect me to believe..."

"We should get off the road."

"What are you...?"

" _Now_!" He shoves me toward a bush - or at least tries to, considering I'm twice his size - on the side of the road, before hiding himself in it. I sigh wearily, looking up the path. Still nothing. So now he's a coward as well as defenseless. Or possibly insane. I settle into the bushes, lamenting the fact that it is going to take us until the next era to reach Riverwood at this rate.

A moment passes. Then another. A few torchbugs buzz around our heads. A wolf bays in the distance. And still nothing stirs along the path.

"Talao..." He places a hand on my mouth, the other pointing. And then I see it. Or something. A hazy blue glow, still far in the distance, swiftly approaching. Mage light, perhaps? The closer it gets, the more I feel a sense of dread creep over me, and I understand why Talao had us hide. Whatever was approaching, it wasn't natural. My hand clutches the grip of my sword, ready to draw the instant anything happens.

Finally, the blue haze is defined enough to make it out, and my blood freezes. I've seen ghosts before, but this... An armor-clad specter, astride an equally spectral horse, flying across the ground faster than anything I've seen, fog trailing in its wake. And most unnerving, the ghost faced forward... But with no face to speak of, nor any head at all.

The specter is still heading directly toward us down the path, at an impossible pace. Then it slows. My breath catches, and my anxiety jumps. Some ghosts were weak to steel, but I doubted this one would be, were it to come to blows. The horse halts at the crossroads, and the headless figure shifted in its seat, as if checking its direction. My hand aches from its painfully tight grip upon my sword, but I dare not make the slightest move.

Suddenly, a piercing pain rips through my skull, and the ghost faces our hiding spot. Talao is yelling beside me, as the horse walks forward slowly, the figure pulling a large axe off its back. I try to do the same, but I'm paralyzed, held in place, unable to move or even fall from the pain. The horse whinnies loudly, as if laughing, and the ghost lifts the axe high. This can't be how it ends!

Suddenly, a blazing shaft of light bursts through the specter's body. He halts, his form slowly dissipating. At once, the presence lifts, and I fall forward, gasping for air. The sun finally peeks up from down the White River. Dawn has arrived.

A haunting laugh echoes through my head, and a phrase lingers in my mind as the ghost vanishes; "Such an abrupt end to our game." A chill runs down my spine, despite the warmth of the sun upon my face. A game? One I'd rather never play again.

Talao is a few feet away, on his hands and knees, retching. I can hardly blame him. Makes me glad that I skipped an early meal, else I'd likely be joining him. "By the blood of Orkey, what was... that?"

"I... I don't know. I've never heard of any tale like this." He stands shakily, heaving great breaths of air. "It was so... angry. Vengeful. I heard... 'All living shall fear the dead.'"

"What did we wander into?"

"A legend." Talao whispers. "One I'm not sure I want to be part of. But one I'll definitely write about. Someday."

One last stretch unravels the knots in my back, and I shoulder my pack once more. A quick glance around, but all seems quiet now. Without words, we set off down the path, the sun lifting our spirits. But I know that feeling at the base of my spine will stay with me for a while yet.

For once, I was looking forward to an uneventful trip.

* * *

For the curious, Uthgerd worships the traditional Nordic Pantheon, rather than the Eight Divines. Kyne is, obviously, the parallel of Kynareth. Orkey is generally considered the parallel to the Daedric Prince Malacath (rather than Arkay as you might think) and an enemy of the ancient Nords, hence its use as a curse.


	11. Uthgerd III

_**Middas, 20th of Last Seed 4E201 3PM**_

 **Uthgerd**

"Any ideas?"

Talao ducks back behind our overlook of the entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow, where four bandits stand on guard. If their associates from the outpost down the mountain were anything to go by, they wouldn't be much trouble, but for their superior numbers.

"A few," he says. "Surprise will be to our advantage here. So try not to go yelling at them first this time."

I grimace, despite his neutral tone. The bandits at the outpost hadn't attacked us, but when one had called me a mud-crab lover as we left... Well, I suppose I was lucky there had been only one unseen bandit. I can still feel the sting in my side from the mace blow, despite my steel plate armour. "Of course. They're likely on alert in the first place, and we won't be able to approach too closely.

"Can we wait for nightfall?"

"Not possible. There's a storm on the way, within the next hour." In truth, probably sooner. The air is already more bitterly cold than it was just an hour ago. The sky is completely covered by dark, flat clouds, and the wind is picking up. "We need to be inside that barrow before it hits."

Talao crosses his arms, a thoughtful look on his face. "We can't go 'round the other side, thanks to that cliff, and they've two guards watching the path. Do you think the brush will cover us long enough to get within bow range?"

Another peek over the ridge. "If they aren't focused on it, yes. If I can make it to that tree, I'll have enough cover to draw.

Talao nods. "Likely our best choice. The guard overlooking the valley is isolated, and if you're lucky, his death won't alert the other three."

"Aye, if I'm lucky. I'd prefer another bow-hand rather than relying on luck." Blast, my mouth got away from me again. I don't really blame him, but it's frustrating enough.

"The only strings I've plucked are instruments', as I've told you before," he responds crossly. "My hands create art, not violence."

I notice snowflakes drifting into my vision. Damn. "No time. We can figure out how you've not died yet later, but it's now or never. Wait here; I don't need you getting in the way." And before he can reply, I slip over the ridge and slide into the sparse brush along the path. The coming winter has killed most of the foliage, but these shrubs stubbornly hang on to their leaves. No movement from the path guards, thankfully. They seem to be looking out on the plains, to the oncoming storm. My armour blends in a bit with the rocks as well, which helps.

The tree, when I reach it, is near a hundred yards from the guard, at my estimate. Not terribly far, but nothing to scoff at. I stand, nocking a steel arrow on my Orcish bow. Cost me quite a few Septims, but worth every one. I keep a second arrow held between my fingers as well, for quicker access. Two is all the time I'll get. The wind hasn't picked up yet, but there's a small steady breeze coming from the plains. I adjust my aim. The bandits are all wearing fut, so I go for a safe body shot.

Inhale. Pull.

Hold. Steady.

Exhale. Release.

The arrow is thrown through the air, and my second is nocked even before the first reaches its target. It lands true, punching deep into the bandit's chest, and he collapses without a sound. I quickly set up my second shot for the closest guard, before any of them notice. Just as I let it fly, I feel a slight gust, and curse as the arrow moves from its path, striking the guard in his left arm.

His screams of pain are clear over the wind, and I duck behind the tree once again. Is it worth drawing another arrow, or do I charge now? They're sure to know my general position now, but three on one odds are not easy to go against, however unskilled they might be. The longer I stall, the more organized they'll be, so I decide to drop the bow and charge the guards before they can rally.

I've always wondered what goes through the minds of bandits when they see a Nord woman as tall as they, sprinting at them in full plate armour, greatsword waving above. The first always seems surprised more than anything. This one is no different. The yards disappear and I finish the job my arrow started, driving my blade into the injured guard's gut before he can draw his weapon. He falls to the ground, silenced, and I move on.

Two left.

The last have finally drawn their weapons, though too late to save their fellow. They're also smart enough to approach me spread out so that I can't move them into each others' paths. No matter. Before they can attack, I shout a battle-cry, swinging at the guard on my right. Despite their shock and fear, he manages to deflect the cut with his own sword, though the force drives him to a knee. I send him sprawling back with a kick to the chest, turning just in time to parry a cut from the other guard's axe. I take the momentum into a downward cut, hoping to cleave off his arm, which he blocks with his shield. Surprisingly, both he and the shield hold steady, and he scores a solid hit to my already injured side. I lose my breath, pain shooting through my side, but I can tell the armor has held strong. I feint to his side, then flip my sword around his guard and thrust the tip through his neck.

The second always dies with fire in their eyes, cocky in the face of danger.

A shout from behind draws my attention back to the other guard I'd been fighting. I manage to dodge a wild thrust from his blade, but he tackles me, and I lose hold on my blade as he forces me to the ground. Still unrecovered from my last injury, losing my breath again so quickly after the last, I struggle to take in any breath at all, stars dancing in my vision. The bandit rips off my helmet somehow, or maybe it fell off from the impact on the stone ground, and he punches me in the face once, twice, sword seemingly forgotten, and I can see the terror in his eyes as I grab his forearm to stop him, even though I can't gain any leverage against him. Suddenly his free hand is on my throat and I still can't breathe, my vision is going black from the edge, and my ears sound filled with cotton, so I can faintly hear a shout, as the bandit looks up and then a dagger is sticking out of his eye

All at once I can hear and see and feel pain again. I yank the dagger out of his eye, and plunge it under his arm where I know his heart lies, and then the world is blessedly silent again but for the ragged gasps of my own breathing.

The last one always dies in fear, a coward to the end.

"Uthgerd! Uthgerd! Are you alright?!" Gods, that bloody bard will be the death of me, I can tell.

"I'll... I'll live," I gasp. He appears in my vision, offering an arm up. I wave it off and sit up, a wave of curses rolling off my tongue that would've had me over my mother's knee for the rest of my life. Okay, pain. Where? Side, obviously. That needs some attention right away. Throat, sore, will bruise terribly, but not life-threatening. Face, couple of knocks. Some blood from my mouth. I spit. Shit, there goes another tooth. That makes... Three now? Well, I've had worse scraps.

Talao is kneeling over the dead bandit by my side, and the details of the fight click in my head. "Did you throw that dagger?"

He starts, as though I'd interrupted some deep thought. "I... Yes, I did." He acts even more surprised than I feel, as if he doesn't believe it himself.

"Well... Damned fine aim there, I guess. Suppose you aren't useless in a fight after all." Slightly less useless, at least.

"But... No, I didn't mean to... I was only trying to distract him, not... It was an accident."

"Accident or not... You saved my life, Talao. For that, I'm grateful."

He perks up at this. "Yes, you're right. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill us both." A pause, the wind echoing around us, slightly muted by the towering entrance of the barrow. "Do you suppose they're here for the same reason as us? The artifact?"

I struggle to remember what Talao had told me about the treasure - bit difficult to think at the moment - the "Dragonstone." "A map of ancient dragon burial grounds? Highly doubtful, I should think. They aren't after something with no clear value like that. I imagine only the Jarl's wizard knows anything about it, let alone have any interest in it. They'd be after burial tributes. Gold and valuable buried with the deceased."

"Then why post so many guards? It's like they expected people to follow them... Perhaps there's some other treasure down there?"

Hmm. It's an interesting idea. But the light is quickly dying as the storm picks up. "We can discuss this further inside if we need to. Right now we need to take shelter."

"Right," Talao replies. "I'll grab the packs and your bow, and meet you at the door." I stand, grunting, as he heads back toward the ridge. I look out toward the plains of Whiterun Hold. On any other day, the sight would have been beautiful, but the oncoming storm robbed the vision of anything but dread. I've never really thought of the weather as anything great than that, or the influence of Kyne upon Nirn, but I can't help but feel as if this is a terrible sign - of terrible things to come. A herald of truly dark times.

* * *

My quick research showed that medieval bows had a maximum effective range of about 200 yards, which says a lot about the training archers went through in those days, considering modern bows have a much shorter effective range due to the user, rather than the materials and construction. So a hundred yards is a decent shot made by Uthgerd, but nothing truly astounding. I also had originally written Uthgerd with a composite bow, only to learn that they were generally meant for mounted combat due to their compact size, and actually worse than regular bows in areas with high humidity, which most of Skyrim likely would be. However, if someone more knowledgeable about the craft and art of archers of eld has more accurate measurements, please let me know.


	12. Arvel I

_**Middas, 20**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 6PM**_

 **Arvel Swiftpinch**

I wasn't always a bandit, you know. I used to be a merchant on Solstheim. Successful. Respectable.

Boring.

So I ran off to Skyrim, hoping to find something interesting to do. Nothing too adventurous, but anything beat counting Septims behind a counter, I thought. But all I found in Windhelm were a bunch of racists with anger issues. At best, I was ignored. At worst... Well, let's just say I joined this group of bandits mostly so I could get back at every Nord I could find.

If I'd known I was going to end up as a spider's diner, maybe I'd have stayed in Solstheim. It was my own damned fault, I suppose. A Draugr popped out of nowhere, and I panicked before Harknir of Bjorn could even react. I'm no bloody fighter; just a gossipmonger with a talent for picking up valuable, which is how I got this damned key in the first place. Its terrifying, rattling breath and strange language unsettled me enough without them jumping off the damn walls, and when I looked over my shoulder to see if it was following me, I ran straight into the largest web I'd seen in my life. The more I struggled, the worse it covered me, so I resigned myself to waiting for my compatriots. So I waited.

And waited

...And waited.

Did the Draugr kill them? I'd never been inside a Nordic ruin before, but surely no undead was sturdy or strong enough to kill two Nords. Every moment that passes is another closer to a pair of pincers in my neck. Was the spider still alive? The web seems recent enough. But why hasn't it come to check on the movement? And where are those bloody Nords?!... What if there was another path? They might have completely missed me. My heart starts beating furiously. I could die down here. No! I will not let Dagon have me! I will survive.

As if by providence, I suddenly hear footsteps from the hall, and voices - live ones. "Is... Is someone coming? Harknir, Bjorn, is that you?" The voices dim, but I can hear them moving about, more hesitant than before. "Look, I know I ran ahead, but the Draugr... I need help!"

Finally, two people appear in the doorway. But neither of them are Harknir of Bjorn. One is a skinny man in robes, and the other is... The biggest bloody Nord woman I've ever seen. Shit. Dagon is truly testing me this day. "Who are you? Oh, never mind. Cut me down before that thing comes back for us!"

"Us?" the Nord scoffs. "The only one I see in trouble here is you, bandit."

I shove aside the numerous curses running through my head; this could all turn to ash if I can't take control of the situation. "What happened to those idiots I left behind? I don't suppose you've killed them." The Nord continued to sneer at me, but the other one acted more neutrally. Whatever they were here for, he was my ticket to living... Or at least to keep the woman from running me through. "I won't lie and say they forced me to help them or anything, but I never hurt anyone! I was just an ear. The worst I ever did was palm a few items from a villager or two."

"Really? Such as a certain golden claw?"

For the love of... Can I not catch a single break? "Yes, yes, the claw. I know how it works, the claw, the markings, the door. I know how they all fit together. Just help me down, and I'll show you."

"Why don't you just tell us now, ashface?"

Ash-face. How unoriginal. "Because I don't fancy you leaving me to die here while you run off. And the claw is in my pocket anyway."

"He has a point."

"Talao..."

The man - Talao, I suppose - pulls a dagger from his belt and approaches me. "He's one mer, Uthgerd. And covered in webbing. I doubt he'll be any trouble even if he wanted to be." Smug little n'wah. The Nord join him after a moment, but the webs are absurdly thick, taking much longer to cut than I would have thought. "So," the... Talao says, "I'm a bit curious how you made it through that puzzle trap earlier. It was locked when we came through.

Puzzle "I've no clue what you're on about. There was no gate or anything when I came through." Although I do remember a loud crash soon after I took off. I'd assumed it was the Draugr knocking over a pot or something.

"Hm. Perhaps it was rigged to close behind the first person to come through. I'm sorry to say it actually killed one of your fellows. Perhaps the last one of them, unless any escaped that Draugr. Nasty buggers, aren't they?" he asks me.

"Uh... Yeah. I was running from one, like I mentioned. Got me stuck here. Frightened the life out of me."

"Is that so? Well, you seem plenty alive to me. Stick with us, and we'll keep you that way," he says, grinning. Charming fellow. I feel calmer already. Another moment passes, and I feel the last rope release me. Finally.

Now, to figure out how best to ditch these fools.

 _Click-click._

Azura be praised.

I don't even need to fake the fear as a monstrous spider descends from the ceiling, finally drawn to the struggling of its trap. I scream "oh gods, don't let it get me! Kill it!" They both turn to face it, the woman drawing her weapon. When she charges forward, I _accidentally_ trip Talao as I run further into the ruin, screaming loudly. Perfect. I keep my eyes firmly ahead, searching for any more webs I might run into. Now all that's left is to get to the wall, open it, and find out how to lock it behind me. Then I'll have all the time in the world to...

 **Snap**

What was tha


	13. Uthgerd IV

_**Middas 20**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 8PM**_

 **Uthgerd**

"I still can't believe how... Messy that trap was."

Talao, head still in the journal we lifted from the... Remains of the bandit, looked queasy still. "Can't say I disagree with you on that one." The sight of a man pinned against a wall, impaled by wooden spikes was... Gristly, to say the least.

He sighed, turning a page. "Shame. I did try to warn him there could be more traps, albeit subtly. I suppose I'll have to be more direct in the future."

"You did?"

"When I mentioned the puzzle trap from earlier."

"Ah." Frankly, the coward was asking for it, barreling through a ruin the way he did. Who wouldn't expect something to happen? He might've been able to outrun Draugr, but one dead end and he would have been helpless. Not to mention his obvious attempt at escaping. Served him right. Talao grunted, distracted again by the book in front of him. For some reason, I found myself comparing the two of them, what little I knew at least. They were both small and skinny, obviously, with no talent for fighting, but that was it. The dark elf had run at the first sign of danger, where Talao had stayed, despite his weakness. No to mention how he saved me at the entrance earlier. And the bandit was fool enough to run into a trap despite being warned, whereas Talao...

Hand on. Talao was smart enough to realize there would be traps, and to warn the bandit about them. Was he naive enough to just tell a possible enemy that, and expect him to not take the selfish route of taking the treasure for himself? Or did he do it to give the elf a choice to stay with us, safe, or run off and die? It seemed at odds with the peaceful presence he usually put forth. Seems there's more to this man than first I thought.

"We're here."

My thoughts cut short, I look up at an imposing wall. Nordic designs cover it, and there are large circular plates with pictures on them, as well as an odd dish in the center, with three holes set in it. But most importantly, it was a dead end. "So where's the door? You sure this is it?"

"Yes. The 'Hall of Stories.'" Rather than the wall ahead of us, Talao stares at some of the murals on the side walls. "Fascinating bas-relief sculptures. Very early Nordic, nearly Nedic. I suppose it is a Hall of _Stories_ , after all. I wonder what this one tells of."

"Which one?" I look. "Seems to be about a local Dragon Priest."

"Really? How can you tell?"

Something the 'bard' doesn't know. What a novel experience. "Well, see this figure here is the Dragon Priest. They all were depicted as having some special mask, which supposedly held great power within them, and were part of the source of their own powers. The first panel shows him performing some feat of magic, and the Nords below are cowering in fear. This second one shows them worshiping the Priest, and tithing gifts to him. And this last one," a picture full of the screaming and dying, "shows those same people being destroyed by their supposed deity."

"Huh. I'm impressed."

"Really?" Is he making fun of me?

"Well, the Dragon Cult isn't the most widespread of stories. Few have heard tell of it, or its adherents."

"Maybe not in High Rock, but all of Skyrim was once under their rule," I say, gesturing to the wall. "You bards sometimes seem to forget that all stories have some person's history wrapped up in it."

"I would never..." he stops. Did I just render him speechless? That'd be a first, and I feel quite a bit of pride for it. For all Talao's bluster, he's human too. "Come on, let's get this door open. Does the journal say anything about it?"

"Um... Ah yes. The bandit, Arvel, writes about 'the power of the ancient Nordic heroes,' as well as the man he stole it from - a Lucan Valerius? Let's see," he ruffles the pages again, as if searching for a specific spot. "Key, Bleak Falls Barrow, Hall of Stories, legend... A test to 'keep the unworthy away." I'd desperately like to know where he heard all this. Ah, here. 'When you hold the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands.'"

I wait a moment, until it's clear no further information is coming from Talao. "Well that's frustratingly vague." And therefore probably accurate. No one would call the Nords a subtle race, but we're as fond of our wordplay as any other. I hold out the claw, talons pointed away from me, inspecting it against the wall. Three nails, three holes. Clearly where the "key" goes, so I try placing it within, and twist it as if it were an actual key. No response. It doesn't budge at all. However, I notice that the gold of the claw isn't completely smooth. "There's a bunch of odd runes on it. Nothing I can understand."

"Let me see. Hm, it seems to be late Nedic. All traits they valued, I suppose. This one says 'pride,' and this is 'valor.' Nothing about a door."

"What about those carvings on the door itself? What do those mean?"

"Odd... These aren't runes at all, but pictographs. Just animal murals with no deeper meaning."

I'm stumped, and so is Talao, if the strange look on his face is anything to go by. What did that bandit know that we don't? "'The solution is in the palm of your hands,'" I mutter.

"The palm... Wait. What if it's meant literally?" Talao exclaims. "We keep holding it like this, with the talons pointed away so we don't stab ourselves. What if the solution is in the palm of the claw, where our own palms have been?"

He turns it over, and we both look. While Talao is translating more of the runes, I notice something out of place. "Look there, in the middle. Three of those pictographs, hidden in the runes."

"By Y'ffre, you're right. The empty space makes out the animals. Good eye, Uthgerd. I see... From top to bottom a bear, a... Butterfly? Maybe a moth? Then an owl."

I look at the wall again. "The pictures up here are out of order, though."

"They probably move or rotate." He's right; the large circular segments run along some kind of rail, grinding smoothly, despite their age. "So... Bear, the moth, then owl." Each one clicks into place. "Now, try the claw."

Again I insert the claw into the central disk, pushing it in. I feel something catch, and it _twists_ to the right. I expect some kind of door, but instead the entire wall begins to slowly descend into the floor. "Amazing."

"Magnificent." It's quite exciting. But, oddly, every inch the wall falls, I feel more... Fearful. As though I'd forgotten something. Something... dangerous.

"Uthgerd." Talao says. "You don't suppose... Might there be a Dragon Priest interred here?"

Now that was a frightening thought.. "The mural."

"Aye. It suddenly occurred to me how simple getting here was. The traps were definitely to deter intruders, but this wall... It seems built more to keep something _in_ rather than _out_.

"And maybe the 'ancient power' buried here is not some artifact, but a being of power instead."

CLUNK

We both jump, as the wall hits the floor. Beyond is a cavernous chamber, muted moonlight flowing in from holes in the ceiling, illuminating a large, stony structure in the back. The sight is spoiled by the sudden tension in the air. After a moment's hesitation, I draw my blade, and Talao holds his staff in front of him. We move slowly into the cavern. An underground brook gurgles by. A colony of bats screeches by after we startle them. The structure, a semi-circular wall, stands upon a worn podium. Along with an ornate treasure chest. A table.

And a coffin.

My heart jumps. _Something_ was here. I could feel it. Nothing happens as we mount the stairs. The coffin remains still. Don't plan to let it out of my sight, though.

"Did you hear that? Talao says.

The wind. The stream. A falling rock. "...hear what?"

"I can hear... It's like it's both within and without me at once. Bum... Bum bum. Like drums."

Bum... Bum bum

Faintly, I hear it. Or... Feel it. Everywhere at once like Talao said. I could feel it in my bones, in my lungs.

Bum... Bum bum

Where is it coming from? Every step I take, it builds, louder and louder.

 _Bum... Bum bum_

"The wall," I say. "Look at it." The moonlight falls directly on it, standing like a monolith. But it seems to glow brighter than it should. Magic?

 ** _Bum... Bum bum_**

"These markings..."

They don't look like the ones on the claw," I say. We move closer to the wall, the drums pounding through my body. "Just... Scratches."

 **BUM... BUM BUM**

"No. This isn't a human language at all. Or mer, or beast. It's much older." He looks at me, eyes wide with wonder.

 _ **BUM... BUM BUM**_

"It's dragon."

...

"The drums have stopped." Talao ignores me, set on the wall in front of him, even more than with the journal. We're close enough to touch it, but it feels... Irreverent to do so, somehow. "Dragon, you said?"

"Aye," he responds. His eyes move back and forth in short bursts. "The oldest language recorded. Except for perhaps the Elder Scrolls themselves."

"Can you read it, then?"

"Words here and there. I've never actually seen the language written properly, only glossaries or dictionaries. Dragons never wrote on parchment, after all."

"Why?"

"Why?! He scoffs incredulously. "Do those markings look to be written in ink? No. They were carved into the stone by claw. This... This is a living testament to the existence of dragons. One stood, once, right where we stand now. And it left this. For us."

By Ysmir. I can hardly wrap my mind around the idea. "So... What does it say? Is this the 'Dragonstone'?"

"It'd be rather difficult to return to Farengar if 'twere. But no. I don't see any... Directions or anything related to burials. Except maybe this line. 'Het nok faal vahlok.' Here lies the... Something, but it's not 'dragon.' 'Deinmaar' is keeper, or holder. 'Dovahgolz,' dragon... something. Maybe stone? Yes, it must be 'Dragonstone.' 'Unslaad' I know means 'unending' or 'innumerable.' Rahgol ahrk vulom'... Anger and black? Dark?"

"Well, that's not foreboding at all." Sounds like our treasure is here. But where? And what is "keeping" it? Oh please, please, _please_ don't be a Dragon Priest.

"Hang on, there's another word here... It's like my eyes slipped over it before. Hmm. FUS."

It happens quickly. The gentle breeze becomes a whirlwind, screaming through the cave, blowing me off balance. I see Talao, standing tall within the wind, as though it were focused around him. And then I _see_ the wind, full of energy and colours somehow, stream into his nose and mouth, as he breathes in so much, I fear he may burst from the volume of it all.

And then it ends. The air falls silent once more, and Talao falls to his hands and knees with a mighty gasp. But only air.

"What in the..."

He breathes in.

A loud crash echoes behind me, and I turn to see the lid of the coffin fall aside. A hand reaches out, pulling with it a large Draugr, blue eyes glowing beneath an ornate helm. Well, at least it's not a Dragon Priest, thank Kyne. Small victories.

I can hear Talao breathing raggedly behind me as I size up the enemy. The good thing about Draugr, to me and anyone else, is that they're slow. All I have to do is dodge its swings, and strike while it recovers. They might fight on without legs, but so long as...

"FUS!"

I stumble backwards, barely avoiding catching myself on the wall. Did that thing just... shout at me? And force me back? It staggers toward me much quicker than I anticipated, but its attack is so widely telegraphed, I avoid it with ease. A shower of sparks flies from where his blade meets stone, and I regain my bearing, carving into its left arm. The wound does nothing. It doesn't bleed, or feel pain. Nothing short of cutting body parts off will do anything to stop it.

So, that's what I do. I close distance, keeping it from using its strange magic upon me again, and keep hacking away. Its left arm is first to go, dropping to the floor. Then I sever its legs. I few more swipes and I disarm it as well, then behead it with one fell swoop. The blue glow flickers and dies. Anti-climactic, maybe. But I think I've had enough thrills for the day.

I turn back to Talao. He sits, back against the wall, staff lying by his side. Staring into the distance, and quieter than I'd ever seen him. His breath has gone back to normal. "Talao? Are you alright?"

He looks at me, and I nearly flinch away. I feel... Utterly intimidated. There is a power behind his gaze that wasn't before. "I am. Alright, that is. At least, I think so."

"What happened? I mean... What... happened to _you_?"

"I'm not sure. I read that last word and then... It was like I was being filled with... I don't know. Like potential... Fus." He stared back into the darkness, his eyes unfocused. I wonder if he's in shock.

"Fus... The Draugr yelled that at me as well. Wonder what it means."

"Force. It means force."

I looks at him oddly. "How do you know?"

"I don't know. I just... Know. Or maybe I always knew, and I remembered it just now."

"Well, is that all you 'remember?'"

He rubs his face,t hen covers all but his mouth and recites:

Here lies the guardian,  
Keeper of the Dragonstone.  
A FORCE of unending  
Rage and darkness.

"The writing on the wall?" I ask.

"Yes. It's like it's imprinted in my brain. The knowledge. Maybe FUS was like a key that unlocked it."

I stand, running my hand along the word that Talao had touched. It wasn't only because I was feeling uncomfortable keeping eye contact. Fus... It resonates in my toes, sends a shiver down my spine. "Why didn't it happen to me as well, then?" Not that I was terrible interested or jealous in the same thing happening to me.

"Who know? Maybe only the first person who touches it is granted the knowledge. Someone who already knows some of it. Or some other criteria unbeknownst to us. This is beyond my stories."

A moment of silence. Talao stands up and moves to the now empty coffin stepping over the re-deceased corpse "Ill wager our treasure was interred with our dead friends here. A-ha. A bit bigger than I'd imagined." With a heave, he lifts a large five-sided stone tablet from within the coffin, and places it on what I suppose is (or was) an embalming table. "Yes, it's an actual physical map of Skyrim," he says as I lean in beside him. "Not to scale, clearly, but you can see the relation between the burial sites and nearby landmarks. Probably not exact in order to keep it somewhat secret, were it to fall into the wrong hands. Such as ours, most likely."

"Fascinating, I'm sure." It wasn't much to look at. But valuable enough to Farengar; he can have it. I open the chest I'd noticed earlier - I'd killed the guardian of the ruins, so by right of trial by combat, its treasures were now mine - but it was disappointingly sparse of any valuables. A handful of old Nordic gold and silver coins. Not Septims, but they might fetch a decent price from the right person. An old axe, corroded beyond repair, and at the bottom, a horned helm, similar to the one worm by the Draugr. A trophy fit for my victory, if nothing else. Talao had better have been truthful about the Jarl's reward.

"We'd best be going, Uthgerd." Talao scans the back wall. "These ruins usually have a secret exit that leads to the entrance or out the back. With luck, we can make it back to Whiterun, and our reward, by two sundowns."

Well. That sort of zeal is new. But welcome, compared to his usual sober pace. I shoulder my pack, heavier one Dragonstone, and catch him up near the back wall. All in all, our trek seems to have been a resounding success, and I'll be glad to return to Whiterun to tell everyone of the tale.

But...

I glance at Talao again, his eyes shining with confidence. Things have changed by our being here. I wonder if it will be for good or ill. I suppose only time will tell in the long run.

* * *

Even considering the accepted idea that the Dragon Claw keys were only meant to keep the Draugr IN their tombs, I always found the puzzles overly simplistic; I sincerely doubt the Dragon Cult or their imprisoners wanted the Lords/Priests released by any Joe Schmoe. So I made them slightly more interesting, at least in my mind. Putting the solution within the negative space created by the runes gives the Claws a bit more substance as a ritualistic or decorative piece, and makes it actually quite easy to overlook.

I will hold off on any commentary regarding the Word Wall for now, but hope you enjoyed the scene; it was one I was very much looking forward to and, as Uthgerd unconsciously notices, marks a significant turning point in Talao's development. Suffice to say, "game mechanics" will be very much different in my fic.


	14. Farengar II

_**Fredas 22nd of Last Seed 4E201** **4pm**_

 **Farengar**

It grates on my nerves, sometimes, how often I have to interact with simpletons during the course of my research. If I could, I'd simply sit in my study, and have a runner retrieve books for me until my voice disappeared from disuse. Luckily, with most of the people, using small words and stroking their ego is enough to get what I need, and I need never speak with them again once our business is concluded.. The ones I can't stand are the brutes with just enough brains to be knowledgeable in one thing they desire, but care for naught else.

Such as Delphine.

"You see? The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier. I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other, later texts." The text in question - _The Holding of Jarl Gjalund_ \- wasn't... completely useless. It was certainly valuable thanks to its age, but the only insight it gave was a loose translation of old places that could help decipher other texts. Useful only in conjunction with other texts, but no real intrinsic value to speak of.

But, of course, none of this matter to Delphine. She requires direct answers, careless of such subtext, unless it informs exactly what she wants to hear. "Good. I'm glad to see you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

Ah, yes. Delphine's mysterious 'employers.' People with an odd number of old, supposedly lost, manuscripts and information. Would I could meet them in person rather than work through this willfully ignorant intermediary, but she insist that _they_ insist that secrecy is imperative for their survival. Imagine how much progress I'd actually make then. Ah well, I suppose no every scholar can count on a Jarl to guarantee their safety. "Oh, have no fear. The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research." No more inventing cantrips to keep skeevers out of the food stores. Thank Julianos.

"Time is running, Farengar, don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back." I frown. Another thing I don't like about Delphine; while her employers might have a wealth of knowledge, she herself is more than abrasive and ignorant. I can tell she has no interest in the actual research itself. No interest in knowledge for understanding's sake. So why pursue it? Doubtless for destructive purposes, like so many of her kind. I worry what she personally might do with that information. Not until I myself understand more.

"Yes,yes. Don't worry. Although the chance to see a _living_ dragon up close would be tremendously valuable..." A few loud voices from the hall distract me, but only for a moment. "Now, let me show you something else I found... Very intriguing." I duck beneath my desk, looking for that scroll with the Dragon Cult information. I could have sworn I left it here... "I think your employers may be interested as well."

"Farengar," Delphine says suddenly. "You have visitors."

"Hmm?" By the Eight, can't I have a single meeting uninterrupted? The price of my research finally being important, I suppose. "Who is it?"

"Cheers, Farengar!"

That voice. I bang my head against the desk standing up, but sure enough, standing in the doorway is... Blast, I knew I'd forget his name. "Ah, yes, the Jarl's protege! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems."

"Never felt more alive, Farengar. Thought the same can't be said for that necromancer we found in Brittleshin Pass, eh Uthgerd?"

The woman standing beside him, who I vaguely remember from the inn a few weeks back, scoffs, "Please, the man was dead inside long before we stumbled upon him. Didn't stop you from screaming like a child when you saw those skeletons."

"They startles me! And of course you wouldn't mention those ice runes I saved your hide from."

"You're just upset that I let him spark your ass once because you wouldn't stop trying to tell me how to fight."

They both laugh, and I notice Delphine seems amused by their banter. However, more important things are at play here. "Did you retrieve what I sent you for?"

Still chuckling, the woman reaches into her bag and pulls out a tablet. One look confirms it, if Delphine's suddenly hungry look hadn't. Old artefacts always have a certain gravitas about them. "Aaahhh, the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow. Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

She places the tablet on my desk, as I pull out a roll of parchment and charcoal. Tracings are more useful for casual investigation; no need to lug the tablet to and fro to see this or that detail. And I'm sure Delphine's employers would love a copy as well.

"What about our reward?"

"You'll have to see the Jarl about that," I say, eyes not leaving my half-finished tracing. "Perhaps his steward, Avenicci. I'm sure one of them will pay you appropriately. My... associate here," I use the term for Delphine for lack of a better one, "will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me." Delphine, naturally, pointedly ignores my glare as I continue. "So your information was correct after all. And we have our friends here to thank for recovering it for us."

For her part, Delphine looks appreciatively at the pair, though she seems more focused on Uthgerd than... The bard. Tedo? No, that's not it. "So you went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work."

She starts to speak again, but out of nowhere Irileth suddenly runs into my study, shouting my name. We all stop, and I notice a commotion in the throne room, guards scurrying everywhere. What in Tamriel could have sent the ants into such a flurry? "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby. You should come too." The last part is said to the adventurers, as if an afterthought, but I hardly care. My pulse quickens. A dragon!

"A dragon! How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

Irileth, ever the stick in the mud, replies, "I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it." Always the pessimist. There's a skull staring at us right this moment that shows us it's possible. Rather than respond, I follow Irileth up a set of stairs to the Jarl's map room. The crowd is short of overwhelming, a dozen people all vying for attention at once, but I simply must find out more.

The Jarl finally manages to quieten the room, and addresses a guard sitting near the table, guzzling a skein of water. His face was pale as snow, as though he'd seen a ghost. Or, I suppose, a dragon. Much more intimidating and accurate. The guard's conversation with the Jarl was short and informative; a dragon sighted near the Western Watchtower, circling it, but not attacking it. Though, if that behaviour is aught to go by, that might easily have changed since then. I could better tell if I had been there, or had the information been more detailed. But still. A live dragon. That's all I need to hear.

When the Jarl finishes informing his housecarl to rally the guards, I approach him with purpose. "My Jarl, I should come along. I would very much like to see this dragon myself."

"No." His response is instantaneous and sharp. "I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city against this dragon."

I almost retort a number of rebuttals; my need to know better firsthand the capabilities of dragons, the inaccuracy of secondary accounts, the usefulness of my own knowledge to help the guards. But his words to Irileth, about coming back alive and not becoming a martyr, give me pause. Delphine mentioned before that my research is no longer merely academic. A dragon, full of fire, sharp fangs and claws, and possibly rage, is just outside the Hold's borders. Perhaps my observations would be done best from a safer distance. I nod to the Jarl, to show my agreement with him, and head out. I had best find a suitable vantage point from the ramparts to oversee the events unfolding. And, with any luck, perhaps I'll have more than mere bones to examine once all this is over.


	15. Irileth I

_**Fredas 22nd of Last See 4E201 5PM**_

 **Irileth**

 _"One last thing, Irileth. This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with here."_

Balgruuf's last words to me echo within my mind. It isn't the first time he had said them to me. I doubt it shall be the last either. And my response was also the same as ever. _"Don't worry, my Jarl. I am the very soul of caution."_ An exchange as old as our partnership in the Imperial Army.

And yet... The very nature of my mission causes me to wonder if this might indeed be the last time this exchange passes between us. This ever, I have no man, no mer, but an ancient beast older than civilization itself, one not fought since the First Era, when myths and legend roamed Nirn freely. Is it possible for mere mortals to fell such a creature?

Well, there is a skull in Dragonsreach that claimed such was indeed possible. And, more importantly, it is my job to convince the dozen guardsmen arrayed in front of me that we are not all marching to an early grave. Perhaps easier said than done. While none would call the Nordic peoples faint of heart, the men and women before me are guards, not soldiers, I doubt many have seen more action than the occasional bandit raid.

The guards are on-edge already; no doubt they're aware of the situation at least somewhat. "Here's the situation, men. A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower." Exclamations of shock rippled through their ranks. "You heard right! I said a dragon!" I raise my voice to grab their attention and restore what little order they possess. "I don't much care where it came from or who sent it. What I do know is that it's made the mistake of attacking Whiterun!"

"But housecarl, how can we fight a **dragon**?"

"That's a fair question. None of us have ever seen a dragon before, let alone expected to face one in battle. But! We are honorbound to fight it, even if we fail. This dragon is threatening our homes... Our families! Could you call yourselves Nords if you ran from this monster? Are you going to let me face this thing alone?"

"We are so dead."

I had hoped to inspire them all with my impassioned words, but for every glimmer of defiance I saw, I also noticed as many with fear in their eyes, the kind that led to deserters in the midst of battle; far more dangerous than any tangible foe.

"Housecarl?" Behind me is Talao, along with the woman he had returned with. "If I may?"

"Why are you here?" I ask him in an undertone.

"Well, Uthgerd and I are following you to the watchtower, so that..."

"No. I mean, why are _you_ here?" I reply bitingly. "We are about to possibly engage in battle with an ancient beast of destruction. I need no liabilities on the field of battle, lest your weakness cause another's death."

Uthgerd scowls, but rather than cowing the Breton with my words, his eyes harden and he whispers back, "I may be no warrior, nor a soldier of your experience, but I am far from helpless on the battlefield, I assure you. I am also the only civilian in this city to have seen a dragon in action, and can give you information during a fight with such a foe, unless you would prefer to lose your guards while you learn how to best fight it. But, more importantly, right this moment, your speech has hardly inspired your gards, and that is definitely something I have a gift for."

Well. I certainly prefer this Breton to the silver-tongued fop I met a few days past. I should almost question if he were the same man, did I not remember him so clearly. And he was right. To lead the guards with such a mindset would be dangerous. I nodded to Talao and stood aside, leaving him to address the men.

"Guards of Whiterun! You don't know me, but my name is Talao. I'm a Breton and a bard. But more importantly, I'm one of the few survivors from when the town of Helgen was razed to the ground by a dragon. And I will tell you that I have never been as afraid as I had been then. A beast from eras past, the size of twenty men, raining fire upon an unsuspecting town, destroying walls with a flick of its mighty tail. I was helpless, a prisoner with hands bound, running to survive. I watched that town crumble.

"And unless we are successful today, someone else will tell the same story about Whiterun."

The muttering among the guards grows heated as he pauses briefly, ad I almost stop Talao before he scares them all the the hills. But I hold out hope that he will turn the tides yet.

"I tell you this not to frighten you, but to ensure you do not underestimate what may await us out there, thought I doubt you would regardless. And also because of what else I saw that day; men and women fighting for their lives. Saving one another, and driving the dragon back! I could stand here and try to convince you that you could become the next Olaf One-Eye, slaying dragons like the heroes of eld. But what truly drives us to greatness is not glory for glory's sake. It is to fight for those who cannot, to save those you care for! Helgen was taken by surprise, unarmed but for a regiment of soldiers who had no recourse but to save those they could and retreat to safety. We are forewarned and forearmed, ready to fight.

"You ask how you shall fight a dragon? The same way you fight a bandit or a bear. You fight with fire in your hearts and pride in your home. You fight for your spouses, your children, your friends and your Jarl. You fight so that no person shall e'er feel an ounce more loss than they must! And everyone one of them shall remember your name, no matter the outcome!"

The change in the mood of the crowd is astounding, as though lightning coursed through every man's veins. Myself included. I jump atop a low wall nearby and shout, "Now what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?" The roar of assent was deafening as we charged through the gates. I find Talao's eyes and give him a brief salute before we are all swept away. I only hope the triumph in his eyes lasts the day.


	16. Menrig I

_**Fredas 22**_ _ **nd**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 6PM**_

 **Menrig**

Unlike many of my fellows, I had grown up wanting to be a town guard.

For sure, the stories of heroes and adventurers enthralled me, but the thought of such danger all the time filled me with dread. Becoming a merchant sounded far too dull, and farming even more so. Despite my friends' jokes about "taking an arrow to the knee" and settling down at their spouse's behest, guard duty seemed to me a safe, but interesting job to maintain.

So how in the name of Talos is it that we have this day fought a dragon?

We'd all heard the rumors, of course, but it still all seemed like mere fantasy, far away from our actual lives. But those thoughts vanished when we reached the Western Watchtower. Not even the local giants could have done such damage, nor caused the stones themselves to catch fire. If anyone had doubts still, they flew when a scout called out a dragon approaching from the southern mountains. We all desperately moved to defensible positions, drawing bows, as the dragon descended upon us at impossible speed. I called upon Akatosh to protect me from his child, and Talos to grant me valor in battle, and to the old warriors of legend, the Dragonborn. And then it was upon us.

"You are brave. **Balaan hokoron**. Your defeat brings me honor."

It was... Madness. I have no other word to describe what happened this day. It was unlike any fight one could possibly imagine. As our foe was airborne, our first attack was a volley of arrows thrown on the Housecarl's mark. A few hit their mark, but they hardly seemed effective, beyond the beast somehow avoiding most of them. Irileth had said something about forcing it to land, but such thoughts have a way of being forgotten in the heat of battle.

There were no ranks to close, no manner of file that would work against an enemy that could fly over your head to flank you. So when the voice of that Breton screamed out to 'ware the dragon's fire, you found cover where you could. The few archers stationed on the remains of the watchtower were lucky to merely hide behind the arrow slits, but those of us on the ground scrambled to find rubble large enough, raise our shields, and pray to not be cooked alive. The heat was still unbearable, and the stone turned cherry red at our backs, but all of us stood still after that first pass.

The next few minutes passed the same; Let fly an arrow, the move 'round cover before the dragon returned the favor a hundredfold. Once, it lit upon the tower, and with one sweep of its tail, leveled the entire top floor, but its brief pause gave us the chance to loose several dozen arrows directly into its back, forcing it to take flight once more. Soon after, the beast landed, whether from injury or frustration at its lack of success in the air. We abandoned our bows, drew our blades, and now we were able to move together. We might not have been soldiers, but our bonds of kinship as Nords were instinctual.

" **Krif krin. Pruzah**! I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"

If fighting a flying dragon was madness, then fighting it on the ground felt like being in Oblivion itself. The beast was even larger up close; its maw could have easily fit a man's torso within it. I know this for certain, as it snapped its neck forward, pouncing upon a man too slow with his shield. The sight of a man being tossed about like a rabbit, the sound of cracking cones; it will haunt me forever, I'm sure. It tossed the corpse aside like a rat, and backed away from our line, as we attempt to flank and encircle it. Despite a warning from Talao, its tail knocked a few of us over several times, one of the fallen men roasted alive when we were a moment too late to recover, but we soon felt the flow of its attacks. Half our number would block a fang or claw, and then they other half dart forward and score as many cuts as possible while the dragon is vulnerable.

The dragon screeches at us after one particular foray, and our line staggers back at the sheer force behind it. It tensed up, and I could tell it was about to regain the air. To flee, or to take advantage of our open position, either one would be devastating to us, but we seemed powerless to stop it. Until Uthgerd broke rank and charged forward with a battle-cry that put the dragon's to shame. With her tremendous greatsword, she clove directly through one of the beast's wings.

The sound that issued forth from the dragon... I have never heard, nor ever shall hear, a sound so visceral, so terrifying, so piteous, as the sound of pain that came from that dragon's throat. It reared back from Uthgerd, but the damage was done; its wing fell uselessly by its side, blood gushing from the wound, as it screamed, " **Dii viing! Hi sunvaar, zu'u fen krii hi! Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!** " It staggered around on its three remaining limbs, madness and fury in its eyes. A living avatar of the unbridled force of Nirn itself.

And that insane woman looked at the thrashing, screaming dragon, smiled, and charged forward again.

I half expected to be cleaning her corpse off the ground later, but she skillfully evaded the dragon's desperate flailing, and leapt atop its back, plunging her blade deep into its flesh, again and again. With every thrust, the dragon's screams became softer, and its thrashing slowly eased. She dropped off the dragon's back, then held up its massive head, a dagger in hand. The gleam in its eyes is dim, searching past us, when they widen and i hear it Say "Dovahkiin? Nid!" It tensed up once more, as if to deny its fate, and then the woman shoved her dagger into the base of its skull. The light died, and it went limp.

Now, the dragon's vanquisher gives another great cry, a feeling of victory rather than challenge, and the guards all follow suit, realizing we had done it. We had done the impossible, the stuff of legends; we had slain a dragon!

The housecarl's quick tally of our troops was somber, though not terribly depressing. Of the dozen guards that had made our group, only two had died. Kjeld was the poor soul who'd been nearly eaten alive, and Sorarke the one who had fallen to flames. One of the archers in the tower, Ingmorn, had his legs crushed, but would live. The two guards who'd originally been stationed at the tower, Hroki and Tor, had not made it either. The rest of us all had minor burns and other wounds, but nothing serious. Our ordeal was finally over.

Or so I thought.

It happened when Irileth had stepped forward to inspect the corpse. Even in death, the dragon was magnificent, despite its wounds. Its teeth a blinding ivory, majestic horns upon its skull, its bronze scales still gleaming. And smoking. Smoking?

We all back away, murmuring, as the dragon's flesh seems to fade and burn. Was it coming back to life? I hear a death rattle from its chest, as if exhaling for the last time again, and a queer wind blows from it, something more than air, and flowing toward a surprised looking Uthgerd. No, not to her, through her. Past her.

I hear another scream. And I see him, the Breton who had inspired us not an hour ago, who had warned us of the dragon's actions in the heat of battle, had descended from the ramparts. And now the wind was burrowing itself in his chest, as he screamed, no loudly, not in pain, but an odd mix of fear and surprise. Before my eyes, the dragon corpse has suddenly decayed by weeks. As if all the life had been drained from it, or its vitality.

Or its soul.

Something clicks in my mind; an old story I'd heard, but as though I'd forgotten until this moent. As Uthgerd helps Talao up, panting and sweating, eyes wild with emotion, one word is at the front of my mind. "It can't be. You're..."

After today, perhaps I'll take up farming after all.

* * *

Translations:

 **Balaan hokoron** \- Worthy enemies

 **Krif krin. Pruzah!** \- Fight courageously. Good!

 **Dii viing! Hi sunvaar, zu'u fen krii hi! Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde! -** My wing! You monsters, I'll kill you! My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde!


	17. Whiterun I

_**Fredas 22nd of Last Seed 4E201 6:30PM**_

 **Whiterun**

 **"DOOOVAAAHKIIIN!"**


	18. Balgruuf II

_**Fredas 22**_ _ **nd**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 7pm**_

 **Balgruuf the Greater**

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean?"

I never thought I would willingly wish for a return to the tedium of daily life. Of taxes and tariffs and petty farmer disputes. By Talos, I'd even prefer the veiled threats I've gotten from Ulfric these past few months. Politics, I can handle. I've years of experience dealing with diplomats, insults, and compromises. But this week of dragons and barrows and... It's all so overwhelming. I thought I might have had a repreive when a scout returned with news of the dragon's demise, and the survival of Irileth, and of Uthgerd and Talao. I'd dismissed the rest of his report as a flight of fancy, or a hallucination, until...

"The Greybeards..."

I could still feel their call reverberating in some deep part of my being. The Voice is a blessing ingrained in all Nords, though it is something that takes years and longer to manifest. A gift from Kynareth herself. Or so the stories say. I made the pilgrimage of the Seven Thousand Steps once in my youth, but I had already too many commitments to consider studying under their tutelage. Nor do I believe I would have had the temperament for such training. I'm too overfond of speaking when it suits me.

"We were just talking about you. My brother needs a word with you."

And now, the moment of truth. Hrongar sends Talao and Uthgerd to me. I'm eager to hear my suspicions confirmed. Strangely, the two do not seem as though they'd just slain a dragon. Or perhaps not so strange, considering. To be sure, they are both covered in grime and ash, exhausted and triumphant, but it's an undertone to a sense of... bewilderment. Confusion and perhaps a bit of fear. The Breton in particular looks to be in distress, as though he can't focus on any one thing in particular.

I decide to feign ignorance, keen to hear a firsthand account. "So... What happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

"The tower was destroyed," Uthgerd says, "but we killed the dragon. I damn near cut its head off."

I'd think her bragging if my scout hadn't said the same. "I knew I could count on Irileth. But there must be more to it than that." An awkward pause. Neither seem willing to talk about it for some reason. "Did something... strange happen when the dragon died?"

"...Aye. When the dragon died... I absorbed some kind of power from it." To my eternal surprise, it was not Uthgerd who spoke, but Talao. Everyone in the room is stunned. Everyone here knows what it means.

"So it's true. The Greybeards were summoning you. You're... Dragonborn."

I can count on one hand the number of times my hall has been completely silent but for the crackling of the hearth fire. It always seems louder than the usual chatter somehow. It never lasts for long. Everyone explodes into chatter at once, cries of confusion, anger, "Impossible!"

"Pardon me, Jarl," Talao manages to make himself heard over the commotion "But how is that possible?"

"Well, tell me what you know of the legend of the Dragonborn, Talao. You are the storyteller here."

"I... Well... Dragonborn is a term used to describe the Septim dynasty of the Empire. A blessing from Akatosh, that those whose veins flowed with the blood of dragons remained in covenant with the god, beginning with St. Alessia's founding of the First Empire, and ending with the death of Martin Septim at the hands of Mehrunes Dagon at the end of the Third Era. Those are the documented 'Dragonborn Emperors.'"

"True, but spare us the history lesson." He puzzles me. He's become increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation goes on. "Why are you skirting the issue, Talao?"

"I'm not! I just... The Dragonborn also refers to a warrior, or rather, warriors of ancient Nordic legend who could... Absorb the souls of dragons slain in battle, gaining their knowledge and power. But I recall no pact-making, nor am I descended from the Septim bloodline! I'm not even..."

"What, not a warrior?" I ask heatedly.

"...a Nord," he finishes lamely.

I lean back, looking at Talao over steepled fingers. Why he continued to deny the obvious baffles me; what else could explain the spectacle earlier, or the call? "The Greybeards are masters of 'The Way of the Voice.' They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World. The Dragonborn," I raise my hand to stifle any objections, "is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice - the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. **IF** you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use that gift."

My brother, ever excitable, interjects. "Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the Voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in... Centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned, when he was still Talos of Atmora."

"Calm yourself, Hrongar. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this, what, Dragonborn." Shor's bones, does Proventus never keep counsel to himself?

"Nord nonsense? Why, you puffed up, ignorant..." Hrongar looks angry enough to tear Avenicci's head clean from his shoulders. And I must say, I mirror the sentiment. "These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

While seeing Proventus cower before the rage of my brother is entertaining, it would be poor form to allow his anger to get the better of him. Especially with guests present. "Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci."

For once, Proventus wisely backs down. "I meant no disrespect, of course." Liar. "It's just... What do these Greybeards _want_ with him?"

"That's the Greybeards' business. Not ours." Everyone was looking at Talao now. He still seems unsure, but far less uncomfortable than before. I suppose, as a bard, he is more than used to being the center of attention. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they, of all people, think you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue?"

"I suppose, one way or another, they'll have answer I need to hear. I hope. It's as though..." Talao shakes his head. "Forgive me, I'd prefer not to speak of this now."

"I understand. One last thing, Talao. The dragon; was it the same one you saw at Helgen?"

He shakes his head. "Nay. Mirm... This dragon was a sort of bronze color. The one at Helgen was pitch-black, with glowing red eyes."

So it is as we feared then. One dragon could be coincidence, but two different dragons? "My thanks. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you. But, before you do..." I stand, and descend the steps. "You've done a great service for me and my city. Both of you. By my right as Jarl, I name you both Thanes of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant." Uthgerd seems astonished, and Talao nods, as though perhaps he expected something. "I regret that the matters of your housecarls and badges of office may take a few days to settle, but your actions are deserving of all I can give you; it would not feel right to delay a reward for any reason. You both have gone above and beyond what was required of you, and I speak for all of Whiterun when I say that we are honored to have you as Thanes of our city."

"I... I know not what to say my Jarl," Uthgerd stutters. "Thank you."

Talao inclines his head respectfully. "Passing gracious, my Jarl, I humbly accept."

A wide smile crosses my face. "Now come! Enough of this heavy talk. We have this day slain a dragon, and must celebrate properly! Let's to the Bannered Mare, before Irileth returns and tries to keep me away from the festivities. All hail Uthgerd and Talao, slayers of dragons!"

For such a small group, the cheer is strong and vigorous. Even Farengar joins us as we walk down the steps to leave the hall. Uthgerd seems proud enough, but underneath Talao's cheerful face, I can see the undercurrent of uncertainty lingers. For good reason. A Dragonborn, in this day and age. I'm sure this is what I sensed in him our first meeting, this destiny of his. But the question lingers; why bestow such a gift upon a mortal now, of all times? To slay one dragon? No. Something far greater lurks over the horizon. Talao knows it, and I know it.

Ah, well. Heavy thoughts for another day. Tonight, I plan to drink as much as I can before Irileth spoils my fun. I see little enough of my people these days. If my hangover is as strong as Vignar Gray-Mane's, I'll consider the night a success. And, hopefully, distract myself for at least one night.

* * *

A/N: Last "canon" chapter for a while. Slight hints to the nature of Dragon Souls in this fic are being dropped, but any true explanation will be quite far off still.

Jarl Balgruuf adheres to the Imperial pantheon of the Eight Divines, though it is known that he also secretly worships Talos. But as a good politician, he must put up a front for the Aldmeri.

Uthgerd was glanced over for reason. Namely, that reason being that Balgruuf was way more interested in Talao at this point in time. For those who question why Balgruuf entrusted Talao with his task... well, why does he trust any protagonist with it? Doesn't matter what kind of character you roll, or how you appear, you'll be sent on a mission for merely having survived Helgen. So, there must be another factor at play. Just instincts.


	19. Uthgerd V

_**Fredas 23**_ _ **rd**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 9PM**_

 **Uthgerd the Unbroken**

I'd never seen The Bannered Mare as wild as now. At least not in my time, that I can remember. So many people packed in tighter than a skeever den, shouting and cheering. Hulda and Saadia were busier than ever, but even still, the joined the celebrations as much as the rest, somehow. Whiterun had slain a dragon. Every man and woman had been recognized, even myself. I thought the parade of well-wishers - the same that had only last week openly despised me - would never end.

Of course, it hadn't lasted.

Because as more people heard the full story, their gazes moved toward one man in particular, and they excused themselves to go speak to someone _more interesting_ than the woman who'd climbed atop a dragon, and lived to tell the tale. And that's how I wound up nursing a drink alone at my usual table while the crowd bustled around Talao, the Dragonborn.

 _Dragonborn_. Pfah. Even now, hours later, the thought seems absurd. Every Nord knows the stories of the Ancient Dragonborn, even before Talos had been called to the Throat of the World. They were all that we aspired to be; proud warriors of great strength, fighting insurmountable battles and overcoming the odds to stand atop the corpses of their enemies.

And I'm to expect this... Waif of a man is the inheritor of the legacy of my people? The man who prefers a lute to a blade, who lives his life in robes rather than armor? That he who raised no hand in battle against a dragon now possesses the soul of that beast?

Ridiculous.

And as if that weren't enough, the bastard had all but stolen the glory of the day for himself. I had seen it, seen the dragon tense, seconds from taking flight, and how everyone had cowered before it. Only my courage had kept it from running to lick its wounds and continue its reign of terror elsewhere. **I** charged forth and crippled the beast and struck it low. And then Talao had walked forward, stealing its soul and the credit. Balgruuf had barely spared me a single glance when we'd returned, his focus solely on the _legend_ in his midst, the call of the Greybeards of far more concern than the savior of the entire city, his reward to me a seeming afterthought, whatever his words might have been. Gods above did it anger me

Saadia walks by, pouring me another drink without asking. Good. Didn't feel like asking, but I needed another.

At least the Companions had had the grace to give me my due. A messenger had brought me before Joorvaskr, where Kodlak and his compatriots had congratulated me on my deed. I had performed a feat worthy of Ysgramor himself, they said, and invited me to join their ranks, apologizing for the ordeal they had put me through before. Invited me, not as a novice, but as a fully-fledged member, mere steps from the Inner Circle itself. A tremendous honor; one which I accepted immediately.

But...

And their faces had fallen, and I had basked in their dismay of thinking perhaps the first dragonslayer of the Fourth Era might not join their famed company - which would do as much for their reputation as mine - and I said that I must first accompany Talao to the doors of High Hrothgar as repayment for his help in elevating me to my position. Because...

I look over at Talao, surrounded by admirers, men and women, strumming on a lute and singing a tale he named "The Break of Dawn," The story of a man and a Daedric Prince, and an artifact of great power.

 _Midst_ _the_ _prizes_ _, a_ _pearly_ _orb_ _,_

 _Gleaming_ _and glimm'ring '_ _spite the gloom._

 _Radiance ablaze_ _in Celann's eyes,_

 _H_ _is hand descends to claim_ _his haul_ _._

Because, as much as I despise the face that a Breton bard of no martial prowess of any kind might have inherited a title of legend and power that most could only dream of, that Talao himself was not to blame. He had not forced Akatosh to bless him, had not conspired with the gods to be at the destruction of Helgen, nor known that joining us at the watchtower would draw the attention of every man and mer in the province.

 _"Guide my_ _lucence_ _through the temple_

 _Lay open_ _the_ _central_ _sanctum."_

 _Eager_ _,_ _Celann accept_ _s_ _t_ _his charge,_

 _P_ _romise of power and glory_ _lured_ _._

No. He was merely a man who had been caught up by fate, who dove willingly into danger, saving my life many times, and the lives of all those in this city, despite not being able to truly protect himself. Whatever destiny had been set before him, one could not force a man to be so selfless and inspiring as Talao.

 _Fatigue forgot, Celann steps forth,_

 _and_ _claim_ _s_ _the_ _blinding_ _daedric blade._

 _Light_ _engulfs_ _the_ _shrine_ _once_ _again_ _,_

 _The shroud of darkness now lifted_ _._

And so I told Kodlak and the Companions that I must needs delay their honor until I properly thanked the man who had unknowingly helped me to deserve it. And Kodlak smiled, said he understood and that I had proved further That I deserved a place among them. That they would expect me before the next week's end and that they would celebrate with the proper ceremony, and a feast that would put the Jarl himself to shame.

 _Before the statue, once again,_

 _Celann_ _stood in awe,_ _triumphant._

 _Dawnbreaker in hand, purpose_ _clear_ _,_

 _To_ _purge_ _all undead_ _from this land_ _._

Applause as Talao finishes and bows. I do not join in, because despite knowing he is not at fault, the day's events still annoy me. But mead... Ahhh, mead has never betrayed me.

"Not drinking too much, I hope."

I raise my brow at Talao, who's somehow managed to shake his admirers. "Hmph. You know perfectly well I could drink you under the table without a second thought."

"You could at that. So long as you aren't drowning your sorrows as last time."

"Maybe I am. You're certainly having enough fun for us both." Which was true enough, if the color in his cheeks was any sign.

He chuckles, falling heavily into the chair beside me. "Aye. They certainly enjoyed my tale enough."

"You have talent, I'll admit. Far more than that two-septim Mikael. Care he doesn't take offense to you stealing his admirers away. Especially Carlotta."

"Ah... I think Heimskr would have more chance of that than Mikael." We both laugh at that. Hulda walks by, refilling our drinks, a rare smile on her face. "Though tonight I find myself desiring a bit of solitude."

"Is that so? I assumed you'd be... In your element, enjoying your fame and success." Well, that came out a bit harsher than I'd thought. So perhaps I'm still a bit bitter.

To this, he merely shrugs. "What exactly did I do? Get lucky, be in the right place at the right time?"

"Are you less deserving of honor because of that?" I retort. "The hero in your story was given opportunity by chance, even thought it was at a Daedra's hand. _You_ have been blessed by Akatosh himself."

"Aye, but he had the skills to take advantage of his fortune. He earned his reward; it did not drop out of the sky 'ere he completed his task. I? I have done nothing.

"Nothing?" I ask, amazed. "Leading half of Helgen to safety? Helping the guards of Whiterun with your knowledge, keeping them from death? Do you not think these deeds worthy of reward? Or, perhaps your gift is the opportunity, and your reward is further away."

"Nonsense. I follow heroes, and sing lays of their exploits not... Participate in them myself! I'm a bard, not an adventurer."

"Whatever you say. I say the gods gave you this gift for some unknown reason, and you ignore at your own peril. Oooohh..."

Talao glares, as I wiggle my fingers at him threateningly. "You certainly didn't act this way last time you were drunk."

"I'm not nearly as drunk as I was that time either. Now go," I shove him lightly, "enjoy the night while you can. I doubt your time with the Greybeards will be nearly as fun."

"I suppose you have a point there. May as well get in my fair share before spending weeks away from civilization."

"That's more like it." I watch him go off, happily. And, perhaps with enough ale, I can convince myself that pang of jealousy doesn't exist. "Hulda!


	20. Uthgerd VI

_**Loredas 24**_ _ **th**_ _ **of Last Seed 4E201 10AM**_

 **Uthgerd**

"It's too risky."

I glance at Talao casually, as we continue our steady pace toward the obvious highwayman. "How? It's one bandit. She doesn't even have proper armor."

"And what will you do about the rest of her friends in the tower? And across the bridge? White River Watch used to be a guard outpost, they must have decent numbers to supply and hold it. They'd be here in seconds, if they aren't already watching us."

At second glance, I can see what he already had. A dozen or so windows on the tower, just wide enough for a bow and arrow. "Still, if we could get right up against the door, and break it down. And of course, you have your -"

"No!" The force behind Talao's voice surprised me, his face hard as stone. "Too many tales end in tragedy from the foolish actions of man using power of which he knows naught. We seek the Greybeards for just this reason."

"Well, maybe you don't mind tossing away our hard-earned coin," I begin hotly, "but not all of us -"

"Hush, they'll hear us." I almost ignore him and explode at his blunt - no, just rude! - interruption, but we are right on top of the Watch now. The highwayman steps in front of us, looking intimidating. Or trying to, at least. She's garbed in hides that barely protect anything; her entire midsection is exposed, for Shor's sake! Even her axes looked rusted. I'd be more frightened by a rabbit.

"Hold, travelers. This here's a toll road. Gotta pay up if you wanna get by." I muzzle my sudden urge to cleave her smug face from the rest of her body.

Thankfully, Talao speaks up. "Indeed? May I ask what the toll is for?"

"Well, me and my mates maintain the road, y'see. Fill holes, keep bandits from in-jur-in' folk such as yourself."

"Bandits? Would hate to run into any of those!" I can't tell if the bandit is playing along with Talao, or missed the sarcasm entirely. "And how much does this generous service cost?"

"Well, seeing how understanding you've been, you wouldn't mind parting with all your coin, would you?"

"Now, now, let's be reasonable," Talao says, a slight frown marring his face. "Surely you'd leave us something for our journey?"

At this, the bandit spits to her side, casually dropping her hand to one of her axes, and I lightly grasp my sword as well. Talao might be treating this lightly, but I'll certainly not be caught off guard should things go south. "Enough of this chatter. You're either trying to play me or you are too dumb to realize this is a hold-up. Either way, you're an idiot. Now, your life or your coin, 'fore I accident'ly signal to my friends in the tower to take the choice from you."

I nearly draw then and there, but Talao nudges me with his foot. _Wait_ , he seems to say. "And how confident are you that they could take us out before my friend here buries her blade in your gut?"

The bandit glares at me, notices my sword already slightly drawn, and pales considerably. It'd almost be worth it, to give in to the battle fever here, but we'd be sure to die if there were as many arms as Talao thought. And both I know they wouldn't think twice to shoot the highwayman along with us. She scowls, likely realizing the same thing, if she has even a walnut in between her ears. "Fine. Don't look like you've much money to bother that much over anyway. Thirty septims."

"How about a discount, considering there's two of us travelling together. Say twenty?"

"Talao," I mutter, "Don't push it, you damn fool."

Chewing her lip, the bandit replies, "Twenty-five. Don't insult me."

He raises his hands, as if in defeat. "Fair enough."

Under the highwayman's watchful eye, he counts out twenty-five septims into a bag, and tosses it the short distance to the bandit, who pockets it. "Now get out of my sight. 'Fore I change my mind."

She steps aside, clearing the path. My hearts calms a touch, but my body remains tense; I wouldn't put it past them to change their mind soon as we move away from the bandit on the road. As we pass, Talao trips, falling heavily into the bandit, who pushes him off toward me with a shout. "Sorry, so sorry, bum leg," Talao exclaims.

We shake off her muttered insults, and I all but drag him off down the path. I don't relax until the tower is out of sight. I breathe. Then I turn to Talao and punch him in the arm. "Idiot! After all that, you go and trip? I half expected them to draw on us right then."

He irritably rubs his bruised arm. "Sweet Mara, that hurts. They wouldn't have fired, we were too close to their comrade to get a clean shot. Besides, it was well worth the risk."

I swear my vision turned red for a second. "Risk? You told me you didn't want to take any risks! What risk?!" Before I can punch him again, he tosses something at me, and I catch it with a jingle. Jingle?

"Surprised me how much was on her. Should know better than to keep all her ill-gotten coin in one pocket."

"You cut her purse?"

"Naturally. Much easier than cutting through a bandit camp and leaving a swathe of bodies in our wake."

My eyes narrow in suspicion. "You were planning this the moment we saw that highwayman, weren't you?"

"Certainly not the first time I've done it. It's amazing what a little misdirection will do." It certainly wasn't hard to believe. I'd heard stories of bards who did more than merely play music and sing for courts. When you entertain people, it's easy to keep their minds off of other things, like wandering hands. Whether those hands were lusty or thieving made little difference as far as a lot of players I'd seen. Broken quite a few of both myself.

"And what about Bleak Falls Barrow?" The smile slid from his face. "Did you misdirect that man into killing himself?"

"...Not purposely. I'd only meant to give him a change. A warning, even. He chose... poorly."

"And you didn't think I deserved to know your plans? The chance to help? I'm not a fool, Talao. Perhaps I don't have your quick wit, but I'm far from a dullard. I understand strategy." A moment of silence. "I don't appreciate being manipulated."

"Innumerable pardons, Uthgerd. I suppose I am so terribly used to dullards that I forgot I'm no longer travelling with one."

He honestly looks severely put out. Well, he should, but gods forfend if I have to travel alongside such a mopey companion. "Shor's bones, don't act as though I just killed your favorite hunting dog. Just keep me in the know, so I can save your ass if you mouth off to the wrong person."

Thankfully, my forgiveness perks him up a lot. "Aye, you've the right of it, friend. Come now, we've many leagues yet to travel, and I'd like to put quite a few behind us before the robbers realize they've been robbed in turn."


	21. Klimmek I

_**Sundas, 25th of Last Seed 4E201 6pm**_

 **Klimmek**

"You wanna run that by me again?"

The cold snap had come early this year. We usually have another month in Ivarstead before the frosts come, but the season had already been cold. Could barely keep my hands on the fishing pole all weekend without feeling frozen to it. Knee acting up. Doesn't help that I'm getting on in years either., So I'd finally given up, and warmed myself at the inn for a few hours. Pilgrims had been few the past months on account of the war, but Wilhelm always keeps plenty wood stocked for the fire. And plenty of rumours to keep conversation interesting.

But this?

"You're telling me," I say to Wilhelm, "That mage from a few months back didn't actually die, he was the one haunting us. And that the old Hall of Stories wasn't a dead end, but a lock keeping an entire Barrow of Draugr from swarming our town?"

"Kyne's word, Klimmek."

I pause, take a swig of ale. "Orkey's balls, you're as terrible a storyteller as you are a liar. I saw that bloody ghost myself a dozen times. Saw right _through_ him. Ain't no man alive can do that, less there's a damn hole in him. And ain't no way in Sovngarde you've the guts to take on a single Draugr, let alone a cave full."

"Never said _I_ did, did I?" He says, polishing an already clean glass. Always needs something to do with his hands, he says. "Was those two in the corner there, names Uthgerd and Talao. Don't believe me, ask them, sure as Oblivion convinced me."

"Aye," I say, glaring, "think I will at that." Thankfully, the hours in front of the fire eased the ache in my bones enough to make my way over to the.. unlikely pair. A hulking Nord woman, and a willowy man, Breton by the look of him. Maybe Imperial. Were they a couple of late pilgrims to see the Greybeards? They're chatting comfortably, chowing down on some of Wilhelm's fare. If he's having me on and I'm interrupting them for nothing, I'll bury him up to his neck in cow dung while he sleeps.

"Pardon. Wilhelm tells me you've an interesting tale to tell of our Barrow. That true?"

Instantly, the man beams, as though Sanguine himself had just offered him every pleasure in the world. But the woman groans, though I can see mirth in her eyes. "Gods above, man, I've had to listen to Talao tell that story a half-dozen times already. Not sure I can take another fanciful retelling of our trek through those ruins."

"Hush, Uthgerd. The man wants a tale, and I'm always delighted to entertain an audience." He turns to face me, though the woman continues with her meal. After introducing himself - "Talao, Bard Extraordinaire" - he launched into his tale. "We arrived in town in the early afternoon, too late to make the climb to Hifh Hrothgar, but not nearly early enough to end our day. So we made our way here to the inn, to exchange stories and rumour. That is when we heard tell of your town's haunted Barrow. Our curiosity piqued, we set off for Shroud Hearth Barrow, cold and forbidding even in the afternoon sun. Down a flight of stairs and behind a portcullis, we saw it. A spectre. A ghost, shining blue as the sky and insubstantial as a cloud. 'Turn back,' quoth he. 'Turn back!' Undeterred, we opened the gate and crept forth, finding its lair, where it lay, sleeping."

"Sleeping?" I repeated. "A sleeping ghost."

"Aye, with a snore that could wake the dead. No pun intended."

"Yes it was."

"Quiet, Uthgerd."

I cross my arms, unsatisfied. "Never heard of spirits needing sleep before."

"Nor I, good Klimmek. Nor needing a blazing fire in their hearth, nor an alchemical lab, nor quill and ink and parchment! But we saw all this and more in that room. Including a wine bottle that my companion happened to stumble upon rather noisily." This was said with a meaningful glance toward his companion, who merely responded with a rude gesture, though without malice. I like her. Talao laughed as well, continuing, "Needless to say, the 'spirit' was roused from its slumber, picking up a very solid dagger from its side, and staggered toward us, screaming and threatening us. Very creatively, I might add. Unfortunately for him, Uthgerd prefers to strike first and ask questions later, if ever."

"Someone had to, with you cowering behind me," she said through a mouthful of mutton.

"I did no such thing. I just didn't want to be in the path of that giant cleaver you call a sword. As that poor sod's head learned as it was cleft from its body. At which point, it lost its aetherial glow. Well, both parts... you get the idea." He pulls out a vial from his tunic, blue and shining. "We recovered this beauty from his table. A complex little potion that made him pale and transparent as a ghost to scare of the locals while he searched for a treasure within the Barrow. His journal, which I gave to your barkeep friend, seems to suggest that he lost his mind along the way, and convinced himself he actually _was_ a guardian of the tomb. Damn sight spookier than an actual ghost story, should you ask me."

Gods above. What a story. But... "Prove it. Listen, I've been round the mountain a good many times, heard my fair share of tales. Anyone could fake a journal and a glowy potion."

His grin widened further. "I was hoping you'd say that. Try not to scream like Fastred and Bassianus did last time.

I scoff, but he pops the cork on the bottle, drips a single drop into his open mouth, and then swallows. I barely keep my seat as his frame shimmers and disappears. Behind him - through him, rather - I can see Uthgerd draining a mug of ale, grimacing. "This is the fifth time in the past hour he's pulled this stunt. I'm hoping it damages his brain like it clearly did that damn fool in the Barrow."

"Hence why I'm drinking so little, Uthgerd," Talao says as he shimmers back to... being solid. "That and the need to keep enough to try and reverse alchemize the stuff, and make it better. Boid salts, most likely, but who knows what else."

"Well," I say. But that doesn't seem like enough. "Kyne's tits, I'm convinced. Unless you're the best damn juggler I've met."

"Oh, friend, you've not heard the half of it."

* * *

"And then what?"

"We entered the main crypt, a long path lined with sarcophagi, and two raised plinths. One step, and the lids burst open, and _**fifty**_ Draugr poured forth."

"It was hardly a dozen, Talao, and they came out staggered." That was Uthgerd again. Every so often, she chimed in to comment on something Talao would say. Truth be told, it was downright hilarious, especially with how frustrated it made the bard.

"Damnit, woman, have you no grasp of the concept of hyperbole?"

"Never even heard the word before."

Talao made some odd kind of choking noise as Uthgerd ordered another drink - another thing, the woman could hold her alcohol. "Fine. A dozen Draugr - the killing of which is still no small feat! - rose from the tombs, and were summarily slaughtered by Uthgerd. Then, through one last gate, we attained our final goal. A spacious room, dominated by an enormous stone monument, a single ray of light illuminating a chest, filled with glorious treasures. Pieces of gold older than Septims existed, jewelry, even a fancy sword for Uthgerd."

"Needs a bit of tempering," she says, unsheathing said sword, "but the enchantment on it is strong." For a thousand-year old blade, it seems in damn good shape, and it has a whitish-blue sheen to it that was obviously unnatural.

"I didn't even know she could recognize enchantments, let alone work enchanted metals," Talao said to me in an exaggerated whisper.

"I have a sword _in my hand_ , Talao. Maybe not the safest time for quips."

"Ah, but your life would be so dull without those quips. You know this to be true." Turning back to me, he continued "To wit, we found a shortcut to the entrance and made our way back here in triumph. Tonight, we revel. And tomorrow, we climb to High Hrothgar." With that declaration, he drains his mug with satisfaction.

"By Talos," I mutter. "That was quite an adventure indeed. To think such plots could happen even in a town like Ivarstead. I must thank you for taking care of that scoundrel for us as well. Wilhelm!"

"Klimmek!"

"Grab another round for these two, on me."

"Told you."

"Shut yer yap." He laughs, reaching for the ale. "You said you're pilgrims, aye?"

The two look at each other a moment. "Of a sort, I suppose," Talao says. "We are obviously heading to meet the Greybeards, if that's what you're asking."

"Well I don't suppose you could do me a favor of a sort as well?" Wilhelm drops the round of drinks at the table, and I stretch my leg out, uncomfortable. Guess I'd been so wrapped up in the story I hadn't noticed the stiffness. "Y'see, I usually take some supplies to the Greybeards every few weeks as... I guess as a bit of a tribute. They have their own food and such, but things like cloth and fish, they can't get up there. But my knee isn't what it used to be. You two can clearly take care of yourselves; could you take the supplies with you tomorrow? In return, I'll pack you a few trout from my stores for a meal. Far better fare than this place, or what you'll find on the slopes, I assure you."

"Seems reasonable enough to me. What say you, Uthgerd?"

"Anything's better than that wolf meat we tried to eat yesternight. So gamey I could barely chew."

"Sounds like a yes to me! Shake on it?"

He grasps my hand with both of his. He has the most interesting calluses I've ever felt, the tips of his fingers only. "Great. We'll meet at dawn at the south bridge. You should reach High Hrothgar before dusk, even if you take a few breaks on the walk. And trust me, you'll need to."

With another smile and a wave, the two retreat to their room. I pay my tab and, reluctantly, head back outside. The cold hits me like a punch to the gut, and my knee begins aching again instantly. Gods, it's as if we skipped Autumn altogether and hit Winter without so much as a greeting. Plants aren't near ready for harvest, but they'll wither in the ground if this keeps up. Never enough time it seems. Always feels like there's less of it to go around every day that passes.

Out in the far distance, I hear some beast scream, and another answers.


	22. Uthgerd VII

**_Morndas 28th of Last Seed 4E201 5pm_**

 **Uthgerd**

"Why, exactly, am I holding the supplies again?"

I'm going to kill him. "Because you're the one who agreed to help that fisher. And because that ice wraith almost bit my ear off when I was fumbling for my sword. And because I'm much larger than you."

"Exactly! You'd be able to carry it much more easily."

I am going to _kill_ him. "Do you want to hold the big sword and fight off the wolves?"

A pause. "I suppose not."

"Then shut it, and let's keep moving." I feel a bit guilty for being so curt with him, but the thin air is getting to my head. Thinking alone is difficult, let alone fighting. Thankfully, the road has been blessedly empty for the most part, only a few wolves roaming about. Any sane creature had already taken shelter; only the wraiths caught me off guard about halfway up the Steps. The cold was bitter, and the winds could gust terribly. And the snows were beginning to pile up. Wonderful. As if the path wasn't difficult enough to find and follow. Gods forbid if we don't make it to the top before the skies darken; the sun's nearly at the horizon.

Suddenly, the winds abate. We've entered some sort of small valley, rocky walls shielding us from the elements. Blessed relief. Neither of us have the strength to spare, even with the break in conditions, so we spend the next few minutes in silence, making our way through the gorge.

"Can we...? We need... to rest... please... Uthgerd."

I almost snap at him; I can see the end of the valley ahead. But when I look at him, propped against a wall, already sliding to the ground, I can't bring myself to berate him. He wasn't built for this kind of journey in a single day. "Five minutes?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank Y'ffre."

That name again. He'd sworn by it more than once in my presence, but I'd never asked before. "Who is that?"

"Y'ffre? He is the Storyteller, patron of bards. Or at least, most bards."

I frown, sitting beside Talao. "Never heard that name before."

"Not terribly surprising, as a Nord. He's not present in your creation tales. Nor does he have a parallel like Akatosh has in the Altmer's Auri-El."

"Stories. You bards with your stories and tales."

He nods vigorously. "Yes, Tales! Y'ffre spun tales to bring order to the inconstancy of the world the Aedra created. He... but pardon, you didn't accompany me to hear orthodoxy."

He looked so wretched; as though he was used to people shutting him down about his beliefs. "No, no, it's fine. It just seems odd for a god of 'order' to also be the creative type."

"Well... it isn't order of the kind the Daedra Jygallag might desire, imposition of order to the detriment of individuality. Rather, it means he gave things meaning and substance. His works are his 'tales,' and his first tale was creating the forests and life of Valenwood. His second was to create the Bosmer, back when the life of the world was a shifting, ever-changing mass of chaos. Nothing had any stable form, a spirit would be a bird one moment, a walrus the next, then a flower, all things constantly in flux - an Ooze, the Bosmer say. Y'ffre took it all and ensured that what _was_ always _would be_ the same."

"And this makes him 'The Storyteller'?" I found myself more interested by the story. If his god existed, it had certainly blessed Talao with a gift.

"Well, consider: Stories and poems are order as well, whether by meter, or rhyme, or style. Without that order, it would be no different than regular speech. Speech itself for that matter. But more importantly, a story ensure that what happened will always be."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Hmm... Let's take Helgen. It was destroyed by a dragon, right? Right. But say no one had lived to witness the destruction firsthand, and someone came to trade the next day, and found the town wiped from the map."

He paused, expecting an answer, I suppose. "Well, he would be confused, to say the least."

"Aye. With none to tell what had occurred, he could only speculate. Maybe a group of giants had gone on a rampage. Or vengeful mages with a hatred for the Empire. Perhaps even the wrath of Shor himself razed the town from existence."  
"He'd still be wrong."

"Would he?"

He gave me a knowing look. "Ah. I think I see your point. If not for the actual knowledge of what happened, the history could be anything at all."

"A historical Ooze, if I may. It is that 'tale' which informs the truth and order of the events of that day. The trader still remembers all his friends that lived there, and so they still exist in some way. His receipts, a story shared over a mug of ale. Words have such power to shape history, and to influence the hearts of man, mer, and beast. And not always for good. Y'ffre was said to have taught the birds to sing, the waves to lap and crash. He gave names to everything in the newly created world. His song was so beautiful, the very stars in Aetherius danced and swayed in that first night sky, and even to this day do they continue to blink from the memory of that time. _That_ is the power I strive to channel with mine own tales. I would consider my life well-spent if I could embody even the smallest bit of the gift with which he imbued this world."

As though he didn't already. "Perhaps I need to spend more time around you and less with that spoony bard Mikael. He has not half the talent you do."

He smiles, a hint of shyness. "You flatter me."

"No, I don't." He doesn't answer for moment, searching my face for... something. I do hope he took my words sincerely. Then he turns his gaze out of the passage. "What if your tale is different from the one you envisioned, though? If you truly are Dragonborn, then Akatosh himself is influencing the world."

"That's still a large if."

"Don't patronize me, Talao, we both know better," I scoff. "I may not be as well-read or knowing as you, but I know that Dragonborn change the world around them. Things are going to happen. _Have_ happened. And Akatosh looked down at us mortals, saw something important was going to happen soon, and decided that you would be the instrument of his will. Why yo-"

Pain suddenly, blinding pain. I'm flying through the air past Talao and my back is on fire, rolling across stone and snow. Talao yells my name, even as something else yells even louder over him. I can barely think, fumbling for my sword, knowing only that we're under attack, my vision swimming. Through the stars, I can see it. A troll. A godsdamned frost troll. Slow, but powerful, claws larger and sharper than daggers, standing twice my size. And it got the drop on us somehow. Just standing is painful, must have broken some ribs. Shit. No time to think, it's coming right for me.

I dodge a swipe of its claws, only to almost lose my footing. Every movement is agony, as though the claws had raked me anyway. I slice the troll's side quickly, distracting and infuriating it. It thrashes, missing me only by sheer luck. A fireball staggers it, knocking it off balance, and I see Talao holding out his staff, the head steaming from snowflakes touching the still hot wood. Thank Kyne for that old miser Farengar. We might have a chance after all. But then the troll turs to Talao, bellowing at him as a new threat. Its charge is slowed by a few more fireballs, but it is unstoppable, upon Talao in seconds. He raises the staff to defend himself, but the troll breaks it in half with a single blow.

Thankfully, it buys me enough time to reach them both. I deflect another gigantic arm from disemboweling Talao and cut across the troll's head, mangling its sensitive third eye. It screeches terribly, the other two eyes glaring at me with as much hate as the simple beast could possess. I manage to keep it at bay for a few more blows, but I can't damage it faster than it heals; already its eye is regrowing, and there's no sign of the first wound I made except for a tinge of blood on its fur. I'll need to kill it outright, or else -

I try to block another swipe, but too late. Pain, indescribable pain blooms from my right arm and side. But I can't stop now. I let my battle fever blot out the pain and swing to behead the beast. But I only meet empty air. What?

The troll grabs me in its sinewy hands, lifts me over its head, throws me. I almost careen straight off the cliff, as the troll beats its chest in victory. A bit early to celebrate, I think. I can't feel my sword in my hand. Where is it? There, by the troll. But it's in someone else's hand. Wait, no, that is my hand. What?

I look down.

What?

My arm is gone.

What?

No.

I can't think.

I can't

I...

The troll. Focus on the troll. It's stalking toward me. I try to get up, but I put my weight on an arm that isn't there anymore. More pain.

Is this... the end?

I hear more noise. Talao shouting. "Run," I say. But I can barely hear myself.

He's shouting "No! Uthgerd! Damnit, get away! _Get away_! **FUS MUT DO MU**!"

I feel something. More pain. Some energy. The troll flies past me. Into open air.

It falls.

...

Then it's quiet but for the winds.

Talao is there suddenly. "Uthgerd. By the Gods, Uthgerd." He frets, tearing off cloth, trying to stop the bleeding. "Gods, there's so much... Uthgerd, what do I do? Mara preserve, please."

"Talao." My vision is fading. I can see tears on his cheeks though. "Don't you... it's alright."

"To Oblivion with that! Here, I have potions, you have to-"

"Stop. You have to... go on. As do I." An old phrase my father told me comes to mind, for some reason. "A true Nord never fears death. It's the how and why of it that matters."

"Uthgerd..."

"Sovngarde awaits me, Talao." The pain is less now. I can't see, and I feel the cold for the first time. "Talao... I believe... in you... Dragonborn."

All is darkness... I...

...

...

...

 **Hu zran nu, kul do od, wah aan bok lingrah vod.**

 **Aahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein**.


	23. Arngeir I

**_Morndas 28th of Last Seed 4E201 6pm_**

 **Arngeir**

 **LOK**

Sky

It is the endless expanse of air above Nirn. It is home to all the mysteries of our world, but it is also an insurmountable barrier, or so it sees. It protects us from the horrors of the planes of the daedra, and keeps us from the knowledge of Aetherius. The sky is the realm of infinite possibilities and dreams. Who has not wanted to soar through it as those with wings do? **SU'UM AHRK MORAH**. We ever desire that which we cannot have, for better or worse.

BOOM!

Ah, the door. Perhaps our wayward Dovahkiin has answered our call at last.. I whisper a shout through the monastery, **het rok los** , _he is here_ , to alert the other Tongues before I stand. The alcove that I meditate in is not far from the main hall, and I can already hear a voice calling out, yelling.

"Hello? Anyone here? Please, help! Greybeards?"

There is desperation and urgency in his voice, but no hint of injury personal. Such things are simple to tell to an accomplished ear. The torchlight in the main hall burns brightly, staving off the encroaching darkness of night. And there stands a man, whirling about, eyes full of mania. Is this our Dragonborn? I cannot tell.

"Greetings, stran-"

"Yes. Thank the gods." His voice is raw with pain, such that I've heard more times than I can count. "Please, my friend. She is injured, troll attack. You must go to her, please. I could not carry her."

I hesitate, but for a moment. We Greybeards do not interfere in the affairs of the world below. It took me far too long to realize that it was for the good of all involved, else all would look to High Hrothgar to solve problems unsolvable, or problems best left for those who would grow by solving themselves. But should this be the Dragonborn in truth, it our duty under the gaze of Kyne and Akatosh to guide and support him as best we can.

To me, I see Master Einarth sign _'test_ ,' and my resolve is struck. "I understand. May I ask your name, stranger to our halls?"

"It's... I'm Talao, you summoned me here. Now please-"

"Just one moment, Talao. You must needs prove your claim as Dragonborn first."

"What?!"

I do not wince from his harsh tone. Compared to the past admonitions of my masters, it brushes by as if the lightest touch of a butterfly's wings. "We Greybeards have taken oath not to interfere with the-"

"Did you not hear me?" Fury overwhelms all other emotion in his voice. "My friend lays bleeding, dying on the mountaintop. How can you stand there, unfeeling?! **BO AAK EK! DREH OL LAAN ZU'U**!"

The shout washes over us, though the dominance does not take hold. His Voice, raw, unbridled, and divine, is nonetheless weak. I fear he may attack us, though, caught up in his Blood as he is; he takes two steps toward us, breathing heavily.

And then faints on the spot.

Well, I suppose that does prove his heritage. I sign to Master Borri, who actually seems somewhat moved and surprised, to _go retrieve other_ , and to Master Wulfarth to _help Dovahkiin to bed_. The bow silently, and leave.

And then I meditate once again.

* * *

"Before the ancient flame, we grieve"

The body of the woman - Uthgerd, I learned - sits atop the pyre; it has been some time since I have had to help construct one such, or to hold vigil. We Greybeards are so few, and so removed from the world, that the passing of one is a monumental occasion; thus are our rituals much more significant than those of the more fleeting Companions. I do not mean this as a criticism, but for the simple fact that the lives of those who live for glory of combat are much shorter than those who live for exultation of the gods.

"At this loss, we weep"

The Dragonborn slept for only an hour before waking with a start. We worried that he might still have been in shock, but he only demanded to see Uthgerd. When we led him to her body, resting on a mat where Master Borri had left her, he fell silent. He did not wail or try to shake her awake. Merely placed his hand upon her head, and whispered a few words, before asking if we had wood for a pyre.

"For the fallen, we shout"

I admit, I had feared the most fantastical things of the Dragonborn when his existence was made known to us. Fear that he might be a warmonger; not unlikely given the conflict of current times. A Daedra fanatic or a political extremist. To find him a soft-spoken but eloquent man who cares so deeply for his friends is utter relief.

"And for ourselves, we take our leave"

And so we do, as Uthgerd's soul makes its way to Aetherius on the smoke of the pyre. We retreat to the yard, as the Dragonborn stands in vigil for a moment more. Then he turns, face illuminated by the torchlight - serious but serene - and joins us.

"So... A Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age." I briefly feel a bit embarrassed for my treatment of him earlier, but it passes. "I have already tasted of your Voice, but I and my fellow Greybeards should like to hear you Shout again."

The Dragonborn, for his part, also seems abashed. "I do apologize for my reaction. I was... not of my right mind."

Humble as well? "Quite understandable. In more ways than you know, you are vulnerable to the passions of emotion. And it was a test as well in a way. Now come, your Voice. Any Word that you wish."

He closes his eyes, in contemplation. " **ZUL**!"

His Voice resounds, much louder than earlier, though not much stronger. But, as Wulfarth signs to me, it is _strong for his experience_. What it lacks in strength, it is filled with understanding. "Zul. Voice. An interesting choice. Apt indeed."

"It did seem appropriate. That was another test?"

"Most things in life are, Dragonborn, though the answers are not always clear to the tester and the testee both. And few answers are right or wrong. But forgive me, I have neglected common courtesies. My name is Master Arngeir. I Speak for the Greybeards. These are Masters Einarth, Wulfarth, and Borri." They incline their heads, ever silent in the presence of the untrained.

"A pleasure, masters."

"Now, why have you come to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn?"

"I want to learn more about what it means to be Dragonborn," he says. "I have heard stories, of course, but you understand they speak mostly of the deeds of those heroes, less the esoterics and knowledge of how they harnessed their power." He clenches his fist and, with steel in his voice, says, "If I have power, I must know how to harness it, and for what reason it was given me."

Good, good. "We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood before you. You are not the first of this title to walk amidst these halls. But whether you are the only Dragonborn of _this_ age... that is not yet known to us."

"Is it likely that there are more Dragonborn in this day and age?"

"It is possible, as the Dragon Blood ran through the Septim line, but whether it is probable... You are the only one that has been revealed thus far. That is all I can say." It was supposedly a point of contention and debate amongst the Greybeards during the time of the Septim dynasty, so my old masters said, as their masters told them. Whether the children of Tiber Septim himself possessed the Dragon Blood as did he, or whether the bloodline forged with the pact of Akatosh was devoid of his true gift. Irrelevant in the end, as none after Talos sought out the Greybeards, nor were there any dragons to slay in those days.

Talao - curious similarity, in truth - nodded. "Then please, teach me all that you know and can give me."

"We shall indeed, Dragonborn. Come, let us away from this dark night and cold weather. The halls of High Hrothgar are wide, but they are not so bitter cold as you may fear." He shivers, and nods, as we walk inside. I take him aside as the other Masters head off. "You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. There are other tests you must undertake, before we may begin your training in earnest. Foremost among these, you must retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

"The founder of the Greybeards?"

"Even so, Dragonborn. It lies in the ruins of Ustengrav, far in the Pale, beyond the city of Morthal. Retrieve it and return here, and you will have proven your ability. But these trials may wait for the new dawn, as it is late, and I know that you have had a difficult journey. Through these doors," I gesture, "lies the sanctum of the Dragonborn, where all of the Dragon Blood have resided while under our tutelage, crafted by Jurgen Windcaller himself. Inside you will find amenities; a bed, food, and robes of our own style, should you desire. There is also a shrine to Kynareth, where you may meditate upon your training when the time comes, for it is she who blessed the mortal races with the gift of the Voice in ages past. We shall not wake you, but I pray you, do not sleep overlong. The return of dragons to Tamriel is a portent to deeds far more sinister, and there is much to do."

"Thank you, Master Arngeir." He turns, pauses before he opens the door. "If I may ask a question before I retire?"

"If it is within my power to answer you, Dragonborn, I shall."

"The Dragon Blood. It is a gift bestowed upon me by Akatosh himself, yes?"

"That is correct.

"So then the Gods - or at least one of them - are directly affecting the course of events of our world."

"I cannot assay to claim knowledge of the will of Akatosh. But yes. Though your choices and deeds are your own, Akatosh has given you power beyond your ken."

He remains still and silent. "I know better than most, that those gifts and those who wield them are hardly the harbingers of peaceful times."

I find myself struggling to find the words to speak to him. "...The times ahead may be dark, it is possible. But, like any such gift, the Voice can be turn to creation as much as destruction, as I can see you fear, Dragonborn." I again wonder at the man that Akatosh has marked, with understanding and gravitas as one would not expect from such youth.

He smiles, the first time I have seen him do so, though it seems bittersweet. "Thank you, Arngeir. That is indeed a relief to hear someone else speak it beyond my own thoughts."

That night, I dream. Dreams both great and terrible. I see people, towns, entire countries razed to the ground. Armies of all races clashing against each other, oblivious to the world dying around them all. And above all the destruction, a dragon of immense size, screaming in triumph as Nirn falls to darkness, even as he reaches up to swallow the sun, dark as ebony and glowing with fire hotter than the deepest pits of Oblivion.

Alduin

* * *

Su'um arkh morah: Breath and focus

Bo aak ek! Dreh ol laan zu'u!: Fly to her! Do as I command (Literally: Fly guide her! Do as request I!)

The sanctum of the Dragonborn is loosely based on modded player housing available in the Thunderchild mod; I always thought it odd that the Greybeards would have no quarters for the Dragonborn, regardless of how seldom it would be used.


End file.
